


The Red Pawn

by RoyGraves



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan, Dark Fen'Harel, Dark Solas, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modern Character in Thedas, Modern Girl in Thedas, Nuclear Destruction, Nuclear Warfare, Other, POV Female Rogue Adaar, POV Original Female Character(s), Please Note The Rating And Tags, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-05-01 09:42:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 58,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14517741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoyGraves/pseuds/RoyGraves
Summary: A daring horned giant. A child of nuclear holocaust.Two unlikely individuals band side by side to save their world from utter collapse and untold annihilation.





	1. Please Read - Update

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters are broken down by Character POV: Khammana or Rhaena. Please refer to the Chapter Title Name to clarify whose POV the chapter is told in.

UPDATE - FEBRUARY 3rd, 2018:

Fanfiction has just undergone a new name change. As much as I love the title ' _Masters of Promise and Pride_ ', I feel the new title, ' _The Red Pawn_ ', will become far more accurate as more chapters are posted. My treatments are continuing and I'm still writing, so new chapters should continue to come.

* * *

 

UPDATE - DECEMBER 27th, 2018:

Thank you to everyone who has stuck through for this story! My cancer treatment has continued over the past several months during the holidays, so things have been all over the place - but in a good way!

I can finally say that I feel ready to start uploading the edited chapters of this story. For now, we continue with Khammana and Rhaena, but more POVs may be added down the line with other potential characters who have such interesting stories to tell.

* * *

 

OCTOBER 20th, 2018: Hi everyone, sorry about the extended absence.

A few things have been happening that have been keeping me from updating. I got some health news that really killed my motivation for some of my writing projects - recently, I was diagnosed with cancer, so during then and now, I've tried to keep my attention on certain other projects I knew I could focus on.

I do plan to pick this story up in the future, but with definite rewrites. Likely, this story will be removed within the next few months so I can upload the new edits in a new story, because there are going to be a lot of substantial edits to the story and characters and I hope to actually write a good portion of the story with feedback from my CPs over time and then upload the chapters on intervals.

Thank you for your patience and understanding!


	2. Khammana

Pain sears _hot_ ; it’s alive, a crackling of the deepest of flames, slicing through the numbness gripping me tight until all I can do is cry out.

For a moment I think, if I open my eyes, I’ll be greeted by Shokrakar looking down at me with that critical gaze of hers. That twisted and sickly sneer warped across her features, and then her voice snapping at me to  _get the hell up_.

But it’s not her, or an open sky. Or my tent of stitched leathers and fabrics.

Instead, it’s dark and dank, with only a single torch for light. I pull and restraints tug around my wrists, wrapped so tightly around my ankles and wrists I think they’ve already rubbed my skin raw. They’re hooked to massive bolts in the floor, and I’m at its center.

I’m just happy there isn’t a collar bound around my neck or my lips stitched shut.

But then again, I’m not a saarabas, and I haven’t been captured by the Qun. These soldiers… are different.

Four of them circle me, pulling their blades from sheaths. Though their faces are shadowed, their watchful gazes are icy and critical, hatred written through their scowls.

Maybe I should cower from the sharpened edges of their blades, show them a mask that I’m just a frightened Tal-Vashoth, but I remember my lessons; I remember the words of my parents, the breaths of my father.

_"We do not cower. We do not bend the knee to anyone. We are Vashoth.” My father had whispered to me when I was still a tiny toddler sitting upon his knee. My horns were only starting to grow in then, twinkling aches and pains summoning tears to my eyes on occasion. But my father had wiped away the wetness and dabbed a warmed cloth to my cheeks. “Take pride in who you are, my imekari.”_

And I never did bend the knee. I never showed weakness.

And now, I hold true to that.

The air buzzes around me, almost deafening, nipping at my skin in ways that feel like  _magic_. Like the spells of saarabas or the prickling sense of spirits or demons.

I inhale sharply and will the sensation away. But that’s when I look to my left hand. My wraps and bands are cut away to show the calloused skin beneath, the pointed tips to my fingers, and the  _green glow_ that cuts deep through my palm.

But it’s more than that; like a grand scar, it eats up through my hand and wrist until the veins beneath my skin seer  _green_.

 _What is this_?

It flares up, and pain drums through every prickling nerve again.

I bite back a cry of pain –

\- Just as a door behind the soldiers swings open.

Two humans, from the looks of their shadowed silhouettes, press into the dungeon. The warm light behind illuminates them for only a mere moment until the door slams and shadow cloaks them in darkness.

But there are still the soft, numbing wisps of torchlight, and as it bounces from their faces, scorns paint across fair features. Or not quite  _fair_ ; the one that clinks with heavy armor is sharp, angular. A warrior. She holds herself like one, and grayed eyes betray a deep sadness cloaked deeply by  _rage_.

The second has a grace to her, wrapped in a robe and hood; shadows that cling tight. She swims through the darkness like a dancer to a rhythm, and a sense of unease trickles up my spine. Under the hood, her lips are pressed into a tight line and her eyes convey no sense of emotion. Smart.

Who are they, and why do they have me bound?

The warrior circles me, her gait that of a predator ready to strike; threatened, powerful.

My eyes train on the dark, shadowed bird in front of me while the warrior’s armor clinks behind me. A wisp of a breath is hot against the jut of my ear, and then her voice that twists my insides cold.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” she says, and circles again. Her voice commands an answer but she bares her teeth and clicks her tongue. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

I stay silent.

The warrior snaps out and tightens her grip on my uncovered arm, harshly directing it to light. The aura of green flashes bright in my palm and veins while the warrior orders, “Explain  _this_.”

“Can’t,” I gruffly force out and dryly swallow. My throat’s raw, aching, and thirst twists my gut.

“What do you mean you  _can’t_?” The warrior snaps.

I need to be careful not to betray my palpable unease. Might as well speak the truth. “I do  _not_  know what this is. My company was hired to keep the order at the Conclave, nothing else, so why do you have me in chains?” I declare.

The warrior’s scowl twists darkly and she lunges. “You’re  _lying_!” Her rough fingers press against the arch of my throat a moment before she’s suddenly wrenched away.

“We need her, Cassandra.”

I blink and steady myself, watching as the sleek, dark bird presses the warrior back. She speaks with a calm grace, despite how pressing this situation feels.

Magic dusts against my skin and pulses in my palm. It’s impossible that I can harness it; I’m not a mage. I’m a  _rogue_. I specialize with dual-tipped daggers. My parents raised me to be a leader, raised me to remain strong and guide my fellows into situations that may twist on us without a moment’s hesitation. I was trained to be  _fast_. I was trained to think quick. I was trained to be Shokrakar’s second.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” The sleek, dark bird asks.

I meet her calculating gaze. She reminds me of those silent, thinking types; the ones who sit in the corners, bathed in shadows, but listen to  _everyone_  and  _everything_. Like the invisible persons who can twist a dagger deep into your chest without a single patron seeing or suspecting.

“No,” I say. “I only remember… pain. Running. A woman, maybe.”

“A woman?” The dark bird asks.

Rolling my shoulders heavily, the clanking of my restraints echoes through the chamber.

The warrior and dark bird press close to the door.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” the warrior offers ever so gently. “I will take her to the rift.”

The dark bird nods briskly, rasps her knuckles upon the door, and disappears into the light as soon as two more soldiers open from the other side. But the warrior steps forward and twists a key from within a stitched pocket.

“Warrior, what happened? Where is the rest of my company?” I ask as she warps the key into a lock in my cuffs. The restraints click and drop, but my raw wrists barely get a brush of air before a soldier binds them tight with weaved rope. Two more sheath their weapons and grasp my shoulders, forcing me to my feet. Even then, I tower above them all, and the edges of my horns glint from the bare torchlight.

One soldier’s lips twitch and a glimpse of fear flashes through his eyes before it suddenly vanishes. A mistake. I could easily rend them apart, twist their necks, break my bindings, and take their weapons but… would that be the necessary course of action?

No.

Instead, I let the soldiers guide me under the doorway and follow briskly at the warrior’s side. We pass up a corridor, but its ceiling hangs low; low enough that my horns hit against one of their lit chandeliers and I hiss out a frustrated grunt.

The warrior clicks her tongue but presses on.

Pillars rise high and I recognize the sculpted features of a faith’s symbol: Andraste. So, are these humans Andrastian? They surely aren’t templars. I’ve seen templars, but their uniforms don’t betray them as such. I’ve met many on the road, some before the war between them and the mages, but more so after. I’ve heard many whispers of what transpired in Kirkwall, but I wasn’t privy to petty rumor. However, some I believed; the wars began. We were called upon. We were targeted. Rogue templars had tried to kill us for harboring a mage, a saarabas. But Sataa was one of my band, and instead the templars met the ends of our blades.

Twisted away from the vast structures of their Andrastian faith, a set of doors swing open before the glow of snow dots my vision white. Cold air nips at my singed cheeks and a hum of magic presses more fervently against me.

Something’s wrong.

The sky should be pale, shaded with blues. But instead, there are hungry storms of green, cascading maelstroms of darkness and flashes of exploding magic deep within their clouds. At its center, roaring like a typhoon and thundering with magic and demonic cries, stirs a vast, horrifying sea of green.

The neutrality falls from my face as I start at this rip in the heavens.

“We call it ‘The Breach’,” says the warrior woman at my side. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

 _Explosion_?

A dreadful chill trickles down my spine and numbs me still. The rift flashes wide like a hungry maw and lightning zips across it like bursting stars. Cracking out, a thundering of whitened noise rings deafeningly in my ears.

An unfamiliar pain rips through my arm and I collapse to my knees with a strangled cry. This…  _mark_ , cuts deeper, and the veins travel until it twists sickly around my wrist.

The warrior pressed down on one knee – “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you” – she raises a hand close to my own but hesitates and quickly draws away – “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

Oh, this was more than what my band bargained for. I should’ve asked for more coin.

But how much coin could weigh against the lost lives of my comrades, against those who came here in  _peace_? I only wish I knew what  _happened_.

“I understand,” I wheeze gruffly.

The warrior pauses. “Then…?”

“I’ll help.” I clench my marked fist and rise slowly but the trickles of numbness still seep through my thighs and nerves. “Just… just get me up there and I’ll try to do what I can to close it.”

The warrior’s press is gentler now, but still rough enough to spur me forward.

My binds itch painfully against my raw wrists, but I fight past that simple ache as I meet the eyes of those pulling themselves from tents and wooden houses. All of them human, who spit in my direction or point and watch with grimaces of scorn.

“They have decided your guilt. They need it,” the warrior explains. “The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, Head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

Most of the villagers recoil away, and some of their tiny children – little teacup humans – glance out past borders of blankets and cloth with wide, frightened eyes.

Yes, look upon the dreadful, scary Vashoth.

We press past a gate that opens swiftly to allow us passage.

“We lash out, like the sky,” the warrior says. “But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed.” Swiftly, she pulls a knife from a sheath at her side and slices my bindings free. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more. Come. It is not far.”

This  _mark_ , it’s more than a simple glowing blemish. The magic of it sears across my flesh like scars. But somehow, there’s an elegance to it. There’s a pattern, but one I do not recognize.

I pull some of the tattered remains of my coat away and find that the scars continue up my arm. The magic pulses in it, like the glow of molten lava. I remember coming horned face to monstrous face with a demon of rage once. It twisted itself up from crumbled ruins and where its body cooled from blades of ice, cracks of molten fire still shimmered beneath the dark rock. My marks are like  _that_ , except these flare green.

“We must test your mark on something smaller than the Breach,” the warrior explains and I cover up the scarred tissue of my mangled arm. “You said you were hired to keep the peace?” I nod bluntly and the warrior presses forward. “I do not understand why you’d be interested in our affairs.”

But my ears twitch. “Why? Because I am Vashoth?” I ask.

That gives the warrior pause. “I thought you’re Qunari,” she notes.

“Technically, if you’re speaking of my race, then yes, I’m Qunari,” I explain. “But I’m not of the Qun. I’m Tal-Vashoth. Which means I am someone who turned my back on the teachings of the Qun so, in their eyes, I am not a Qunari.”

“I… see.” The warrior clicks her tongue once more.

But as I turn to perk a brow, the Breach above crackles violently with a storm of glowing green souls and I collapse to my knees. Painfully biting back a strangled cry, I grip my fist tight. The scars  _burn_ ; hotter than the touch of that demon of rage.

When the pain dissipates, I loosen my grip, but a few drops of blood drip from my palm where my fingers had dug tight.

“The pulses are coming faster now.” the warrior loops her arms around one of my own to pull me up. “The more the Breach grows, the more rifts appear. Come on.”

“So” - I clear my throat before I raise a cloth to wipe the droplets of blood from my palm – “what did happen? How did I survive?”

“They said you…  _stepped_  out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. Everything was laid to waste-”

Above us, a maelstrom of collapsing stars spins and cascades – until it suddenly, and _violently_ , cracks the bridge right below our feet. The stone breaks away and crumbles to the ice while I scramble out for a foothold.

But to no avail.

Slamming into a few jagged rocks, I tumble to the hardened ice.

My back thrums with pain but I push myself up. Gazing out across the ice for the warrior, bubbling pools of black ichor separate her and me. The scolding puddles do not burn through the ice, but there’s something-

A massive, clawed hand wretches free from the black ichor and the talons shine like exposed ivory in the glow of the winter night.

 _Shit_.

A shade, dripping with scolding tar and exposed, rotten skin pulls free from the pool of darkness, and turns its one beady, and milky, eye on me. It howls out in unbridled pain and anger, its limbs twisted and eaten away until I can spot  _bone_  beneath tattered skin that flaps like cloth in the icy wind.

There’s something sad about it, something that wretches at a part of me, that makes my jaw drop with  _pity_. This  _thing_ , this demon, has been driven  _mad_.

And it lunges for me.

With a twist of my wrist, and a shuffle of my feet on the ice, I disappear into a fume of smoke.

The demon’s claws meet nothing but air, and it pauses to gaze at empty talons. Its milky eye shines, and the energy that flows off it bristles like a cornered animal bearing its teeth in warning. It doesn’t feel me; it doesn’t see me, until I pull a dagger from some of the supplies that tumbled from the bridge and drive it deep into the crook of the demon’s neck and spine.

It tenses up and convulses, black ichor spraying from the slash upon its exposed back. The wispy flesh upon its form ignites in a greenish flame and it turns its one milky eye to look upon me. But it droops ivory-colored talons and lets the green flame envelope it until there’s nothing but a soft, billowing remnant of skin remaining.

Behind me, a pained howl stirs me around, and a second shade rears up with its own sharpened talons. Until a blade cuts through the center of its chest and the demon takes pause. It looks down, cups the blade between its claws, before it’s suddenly and violently ripped apart by sword and green fire.

Where the shade once loomed now proudly stands the human warrior. But the moment her eyes sweep over the dagger in my grip, her gaze hardened coldly and she raises the sharp edge of her black-ichor coated sword toward me.

“ _Drop it_!” she commands.

And the dagger slips from my fingers. “Alright,” I grunt.

But the warrior doesn’t lower her weapon. Has she changed her mind on killing me? Does she plan to skewer me with her tainted sword now? But her gaze flicks to the dagger at my feet. “No.” She gestures to it.

 “No?” I narrow my eyes.

 “Pick it back up.”

Okay… what does she actually want?

 “You should have something to protect yourself with, if I cannot get to you in time,” she explains. She slips her sword back into the sheath at her side. “You’re a rogue then? Take what you need to protect with.”

Huh.

Well.

I think I’m starting to like her.

So, I do just that; I look to the scattered provisions and pull out a few leather strips and an additional dagger. Both iron with simple ram leathers. Nothing special, but it’ll do the job for now.

 “Come on, we need to go,” the warrior commands.

We’re on our own now. A human warrior and a Vashoth rogue, who would’ve guessed.

The fighting grows louder and louder the farther we travel up the snowy steps. While the warrior at my side takes one at a time, I bound up two or three with each stride.

“We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting. We must help them.” The warrior shouts above the noise of fighting and storm.

From the collapsed buildings and ruins, shades and wraiths descend.

Magic pricks against my skin and I turn from the perch of crumbled stone to the rift that crackles in the air between the shades, wraiths, and soldiers.

Except, they’re not soldiers. Not like the ones in Haven, dressed with the hairy eyeball emblem etched into armor. No, one is a dwarf and the other an elf.

My companion warrior is quick to leap into action, driving her blade through the wispy body of a wraith. The green aura that constructs its form rips asunder, and a glimpse of ethereal, bony ribs glints in the light. It turns its glowing eyes on her, and opens a wide mouth of razor fangs in a pointed, sharp skull. She spears her sword between its opened jaws.

And the elf spins with an unmeasured grace. It’s unusual. His style, it doesn’t match many of the mages I’ve encountered. Each has their own unique style. I’ve worked as a guard for several individual Circle mages, but they move all singularly. Probably how they were taught in their Circle. The way the Vashoth teach our saarabas are different too. Fluid and controlled, reliant on nature and willpower. But this elf is different; he doesn’t have the markings of the wandering ones. And as he spins, he splits a shade in two with a calculated snap of energy.

The dwarf though, uses some unusual contraption. It’s a  _crossbow_ , but more than that. It’s unlike any that I’ve seen. And he works with it like he has for  _years_. An expert hand, eyes that glance and hands that do the work. A shade and wraith quickly fall to the swift shot of loaded and reloaded arrows.

A shade coils away from the three, curling its talons and turning its milky eyes on the warrior as she turns her back. It rears forward, and yowls-

But I lunge down from my perch and drive my sharpened, iron daggers through the line of ribs and flesh. The shade convulses suddenly under the weight of the weapons and dissipates in flashes of green flame and smoke.

A deep groan echoes through my bones and I straighten. Overhead in the rift, that cuts through the sky like a blade through cloth, a flash of  _massive_ , deep black eyes stare down. A dreadful fear creeps up my spine, and my ears ring with a deafening tremble of a roar.

“Quickly! Before more come through!” Someone shouts, and a sudden grip wrenches my marked hand upward toward the rift.

Magic pricks at my skin under suddenly it pulls at the mark upon my hand like trying to rip away a stitched and healing scar. My teeth snap together as vast green energy from the rift and that from my mark fastens together. It pulls at my hand and draws me a few inches through the sooty snow, until it quite suddenly and violently snaps  _shut_.

I fall back a step as the mark lessens to a dull ache.

And I glance to my side. The elf mage stands there and clasps his hands together behind his back. A smirk twitches at the corner of his lips but, a moment later, that disappears and instead he arches a brow.

“Well done,” he states. “I theorized the Mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.”

My lips twitch.

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” the human warrior expresses as she approaches.

“Possibly,” says the elf, but he glances to me then. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Good to know.” A gruffer voice elicits a turn of my head, and I stare down at this red-headed dwarf. His skill with his unusual bow is unique, unmatched. Maybe there’d be an opportunity to work with him after all of this is said and done. He straightens a wrinkle in his glove as he continues, “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.”

I fight past a pleased scoff. He sounds like any sarcastic, hard-headed rogue I’d know in my company back home.

He offers a tilt of his head and a coy smirk. “Varric Tethras” – he winks toward the warrior to my left – “Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

“Are you with” – What is it called? The church of the Andrastian faith? Chantry? Yes – “Chantry, or…?”

The elf mage at my right surprisingly chuckles. “Was that a serious question?” he perks a brow.

“Technically, I’m a prisoner, just like you,” the dwarf – or  _Varric_  – expresses.

“I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine,” the warrior says. What was her name? I heard it on a whim, from that dark bird. Cass… _something_? “Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet, here I am.” Varric rolls his shoulders with a steady huff. “Lucky for you, considering certain events.”

“I might have to hire you sometime.” I offer him a smirk. “My company could use a witty, storytelling dwarf who can keep his own.”

“ _If_  we make it through this alive, you might want to add.” Varric says.

I grunt, “Yes. I take it you would not be willing to part with your crossbow?”

Varric’s eyes widen. “Bianca? Oh no.” He runs a hand down the wooden hilt of his weapon. “Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

I can’t help the amused smile that turns up my lips. “You named your crossbow Bianca?”

“Of course,” he clarifies. “And she’ll be great company in the valley.”

The warrior steps in front of me, toward Varric. “Absolutely not. Your help is appreciated, Varric, but-”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.” Varric grins.

The warrior steps back and scoffs with disgust.

“My name is Solas” – I turn to the mage to my side as he speaks – “if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’,” Varric adds on with a low smirk.

“You know much about these rifts and their magic?” I ask, taking in this mage. He’s tall, well – not  _quite_ – but taller than our other companions. For a mage, he’s not well-dressed. His clothes are moth-eaten, mended and stitched over and over again. But he’s not wiry like many. Instead, I can sense the tension of muscle beneath all the fur and leather.

“Solas is an apostate, well-versed in such manners.” The warrior points out.

“Technically all mages are now apostates, Cassandra,” Solas says.

 _Cassandra_! Yes, that’s her name.

Good to know.

“My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage,” Solas continues. “I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

I hum softly. “A commendable and sensible attitude, Solas.” I nod to him.

“I, yes.” A faint smile tugs at the edges of his lips. He looks to the Seeker. “Cassandra, you should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. True, your prisoner is no mage, but it’d be difficult to imagine anyone having such power.”

Cassandra releases a deep huff of a breath. “Understood.” She nods and steps forward. “Let’s get… wait, I’m sorry…” She turns to me. “I never did ask your name.”

“Seeker, where are your manners?” Varric tsks. “You can’t just tie her up and torture her and not get her name first.”

Hmm.

Cassandra huffs.

“It’d be very nice to know what to call you,” Solas says calmly.

So I nod. “I am called Khammana.”

Solas arches a brow. “So you’re not of the Qun?” he asks.

I hear Varric curse under his breath.

“I am Tal-Vashoth,” I clarify and straighten. What does this elf mage know of the Qun? Is he  _viddathari_? My lips twitch, but I steady my gaze until all I hear is a soft hum pass from him.

“Interesting.” He states.

“That’s good then,” Varric says. “I think.”

“Shall we go?” Cassandra finally butts in with a huff. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

“No more questions about my origin then? Alright,” I snip sarcastically, but swiftly jump over the edge of a crumbled wall and hit a few wooden planks below. “Come on then. Better get this shit fixed!”

A deep rumble of a laugh echoes from Varric. “Oh, I  _like_  her,” he booms.

We press onwards, cutting through more wraiths and shades that make themselves known, but as we press up wide bounds of stairs, I answer a huff from Varric with a turn of my head.

“So…” he clears his throat. “ _Are_ you innocent?”

“I’m not sure.” I shrug. “Maybe.”

“That will get you every time,” he chuckles. “You should’ve spun a story.”

“That’s what  _you_  would’ve done,” Cassandra adds with a snap of spite.

“It’s more believable” – he briskly gives a wave of his hand – “and less prone to premature execution.”

“I’m not a great storyteller,” I say. “Then again, most of my company isn’t. You’ll find more bull-horned soldiers who can’t spin a few full sentences without pause instead of storytellers within my company.”

“ _I_  may have to change that then.” Varric nods. “Nights must be boring for Tal-Vashoth.”

“Quite the contrary, Master Tethras,” I note.

He groans. “Please,  _none_  of that master business.  _Just_  Varric,” he expresses. “And what do you Tal-Vashoth mercenaries do at night?”

“We clash our horns and butt heads to establish who gets the biggest and best cut of meat.” I smirk back at him, and I watch his eyes widen with a shimmer of light.

“ _Are you serious_?” He asks.

I sneer. “No.”

His gleeful smile fades into a frown. “Then how do you-?”

“The quickest one to take it claims it.” My sneer grows. “It’s usually me.”

“Oh, I  _definitely_  like you,” Varric laughs.

Cassandra groans.

* * *

 

The camp isn’t far, but the moment I step inside many of the gathered soldiers glare in my direction. You’d think that a declaration that I’m here to help would thaw some of these icy gazes, but that’s false. But I remember the dark bird, and beside her stands a man dressed in…  _oh_ , he’s with the Chantry. Some women and men wore similar robes and attire when we were introduced at the Temple, but that much is all I recall.

He spots me and quickly turns his nose up with disgust. “Ah, here they come.” The spite in his voice cuts, but not deep enough. It’s easy to brush off the hate he must feel deep within his bitter old gut.

But the relief on the dark bird’s face is much appreciated. “You made it,” she speaks. “Chancellor Roderick, this is-”

“I know who she is,” the Chancellor spits. His eyes narrow on Cassandra as she comes to stand at my side. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

My gaze hardens and a twitch of a scowl forms on my features before I quickly hide it away.

“‘Order me’? You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!” Cassandra shoots back.

The Chancellor scowls. “And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

“We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know,” the dark bird cuts in.

“Justinia is dead. We must elect a replacement, and obey  _her_  orders on the matter.” The Chancellor argues.

I stretch a kink from my neck. So, it’s going to be like this, then. Like dealing with a bunch of children. Ah well, if you take away a religious figure, people falter. They’re scared. That’s understandable.

“First, I didn’t kill your Most Holy,” I interrupt. “Second, we have a bigger problem.” I raise my hand and point to the Breach. “ _That_  is our problem right now. We have to close that. Demons are pouring out of it left and right. It’s tearing our world apart and you’re arguing what to do with my  _head_!” I snap out at that last statement, and even the dark bird straightens. But the Chancellor falters back a step as I continue. “Let’s take care of the Breach and then we can argue what to do with me afterwards, got it?”

The Chancellor’s at a loss for words, and he trembles. “Seeker… call a retreat.” He glances to Cassandra. “Our situation here is hopeless.”

But Cassandra simply shakes her head. “We can stop this before it’s too late.”

“How?” The Chancellor asks. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.”

“We must get to the temple,” Cassandra offers. “It’s the quickest route.”

“But not the safest.” The dark bird adds on with a nod. “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.”

This time it’s Cassandra who scowls. “We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky.”

“Listen to me,” the Chancellor pleads. “Abandon this now before more lives are lost!”

But the brush of painful magic warns me a moment before the maelstrom of green storms and the Breach crackle loudly overhead. The mark upon my arm reacts, shimmering and pulling, but it’s a pain I can handle. My nerves enflame, but I close my fist. Concentrate.

I’ve felt worse.

Only when it calms do I open my eyes again and meet Cassandra’s eyes. “How do you think we should proceed?” she asks.

I blink, and can’t help the twitch of my ears. “Oh, so now you’re asking  _me_?”

“You have the mark,” Solas points out from where he stands.

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra adds. “Since we cannot agree on our own…”

In silence, I look to the swirling storm overhead. The wind picks up, a mix of icy nips and unusual flashes of warmth. Green fire coats the sky, and floating rubble slams into the ground with every shattering thunder from the Breach.

“Take the mountain path,” I decide. “There may still be soldiers we can save.”

* * *

 

There are old mines and caves deep within the mountains, but they were easy enough to get to. The ladders were something, high and long, and soon enough I even had to catch my breath. But past that, past a few more wraiths and shades that crumble beneath our blades, we find the bodies of three of Cassandra’s fallen soldiers.

“Guess we found them,” Varric mumbles softly.

But Cassandra kneels down to gently shut one’s eyes. “This can’t be all of them,” she says.

And sure enough, she’s right; we find them in the opened mountains, struggling with sword against talon and fang and spirit. Ahead of us, a rift tears free, cutting through the skies too easily, and magic crackles around it like unbridled thunder.

I can feel the mark in my hand reacting, alit with pain, but my fingers only tighten around the hilts of my blades until I slice upwards into a shade that corners one of the remaining soldiers.

The demon slumps into a pile of black ichor at my feet before green smoke and flame eats it away. And as the wraiths howl around us all, snapping their many fanged jaws, I flip one of my blades into the snow and lift my mark to the rift cut through the winds.

It stitches together, and the pain in my arm still rockets deafening through every nerve, but I close the rift only when dots of white flash before my eyes.

When my arm drops, there’s nothing but numbness and dull ache of plucking magic.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas comments as he steadies his staff at his side. “You’re getting quite proficient at this.”

“Let’s just hope it works on the big one,” Varric adds.

Three of the soldiers remain and clutch at their sides. One trembles, his arm shattered as he shelters it against his chest. Another rushes to his side to aid him as the third addresses Cassandra. “Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra,” she says. “I don’t think we could have held out much longer.” She rubs a hand gingerly up over her drooped arm, but she holds herself well.

“Thank our prisoner, Lieutenant.” Cassandra gestures with a flick of her hand. “She insisted we come this way.”

The soldier stares at me, dumb-founded. “The prisoner? Then you…?”

And I give a slight bow of my head. “It was worth saving you, if we could.”

“Then you have my sincere gratitude,” she offers a lower bow, and then Cassandra presses a hand into her shoulder.

“The way into the valley behind us is clear for the moment,” she orders. “Go, while you still can.”

We press on, past a few shattered gates and down slopes of stairs coated with ice. We’re growing ever closer; the clouds of ash and walls of molten rock jut from the ridges ahead of us. The maelstrom and hum of corrupted magic rings louder with every foot we dig through the snow.

“So, holes in the Fade don’t just accidently happen, right?” Varric pipes up right behind me, but I know the question is directed toward Solas. He’s the mage and an expert, as he said.

Solas speaks, “If enough magic is brought at bay, it is possible.”

“But there are easier ways to make things explode.”

“That is true.”

“We will consider how this happened once the immediate danger has passed,” Cassandra adds in before all of us grow silent.

The snow has melted away, replaced by dark and molten ash. Corrupted stone and rock spiral high toward the maelstrom of energy and magic collected above. But before us, I slip and catch my foot near the charred remains of a petrified corpse, still flickering with fire and gazing up, screaming in wordless agony.

I shuffle away from it quickly and suck in a breath.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas whispers.

Varric adds, “What’s left of it.”

Cassandra draws close and I can feel the others behind me, the heat of them a cooling opposition to the hellish burn of the petrified corpses. I don’t see any of my men amongst them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not here.

“That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you,” Cassandra says. “They say a woman was in the rift behind you, but no one knew who it was.”

The only thing I can do is take a shaky breath and continue past the corpses, all of them seared and coaled too badly to be recognizable. “We should… we should bury them after we… close the Breach,” I whisper. “Each deserves to be buried. They can’t be remembered like this.”

Cassandra glances up to me, her eyes glimmering with a moment of shock. “I… agree.”

But before us, pulling at the cracked and shattered remnants of Andrastian columns, unnatural constructs of ethereal green shards rip through the air. Ribbons and crackles of magic weave from the shards up toward the maelstrom in the sky, twinkling with flames that burst like shattering emerald stars.

“The Breach is a long way up,” Varric breathes.

Behind us, several soldiers run to meet us with the dark bird leading at their front. “You’re here. Thank the Maker.”

But I look back to the monstrosity in the sky. The mark in my hand recognizes the power in the Breach. The magic is  _somehow_  living, breathing. I can feel it slithering through the mark, tingling in the base of each of my fingers.

A hand rests against my arm and I twist to stare down at Cassandra. “This is your chance to end this,” she says. “Are you ready?”

I blink, glancing at her and then the mark in my left hand. Past the tattered remains of my gloves, I wiggle my fingers and the magic responds almost willingly. It flows and flares with my movements. It glows brighter, anticipative.

“Y-yes, I am.” I nod. “But that rift doesn’t look like the ones we’ve seen already.”

“You are correct,” Solas expresses. “This one is temporarily closed. But be wary, when you attempt to open it, it will attract attention from the other side. We have to be prepared for a fight.”

“Are you  _sure_?” I ask.

“This rift was the first, and it is the key,” Solas answers. “Perhaps we’ll seal even the Breach.”

“Then let’s find a way down. And be careful,” Cassandra adds on.

The air around us shimmers and, for a moment, the rift flashes red. A voice cuts through wind, pulling at the echoes in everyone’s ears.

 _“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice_. _”_ The echoes of it rumble darkly and course a chill up the length of my spine.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asks, and I can hear the fear in her voice.

“If I had to guess” – Solas adds in – “the person who created the Breach.”

Past us and down the spiraling spirals of the temple, shards of rock – not green, or even blue, but  _red_ jut forth. But it isn’t the dripping, green tar shards that claw from the rift above the destroyed structure of Andraste. No, this is… this can’t be  _lyrium_.

Varric’s jaw drops. “You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker?” he asks.

“I see it, Varric.” Cassandra steps around a massive hunk of the glittering, corrupted stone. But beneath it, something tugs me closer. A whisper, a wish, a beckon.

_Come close._

_Touch._

_And soon you’ll see_.

But I wrench myself away.

“But what is it doing here?” Varric hisses out with anger.

“Magic could’ve drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it,” Solas adds.

“It’s evil,” Varric hisses. “Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” I mutter and shuffle around it as much as possible, until more of the rasping voices echo in our ears.

 _“Keep the sacrifice still.”_  There’s that scrape of a guttural voice again, but something is different. Something new, that tugs and knots fear in my chest.

A woman’s voice, crying out;  _“Someone help me!”_

I spin and face Cassandra. Shock, fear, and sadness flicker across her face. “That was Divine Justinia’s voice.” Her words crack as she struggles to swallow thickly.

“Cassandra.” I step closer. “Do you need a moment?”

But she quickly composes herself, steadies her shoulders, and shakes her head. “No. We must continue.”

But the next voice catches me, and I look to the maelstrom that’s the Breach. The voice that belongs to  _me_ , but it echoes deep, in more than just my ears – _“What’s going on here?”_

“That was your voice.” Cassandra and the others start in surprise. “Most Holy called out to you. But…”

My eyes widen in surprise, but we’re given little reprieve. Magic surges from the mark and pulls a startled cry from my lips. It hits the rift, flashing forth in shadows of magic and energy. The first – a massive, imposing shadow with glowing eyes that resemble the corrupted red lyrium. But then there’s the second; Most Holy, Divine Justinia.  _She_  had hired my company. I led my company here, accepted her contract to keep the peace, and now she’s  _gone_.

But the shapes face  _me_ , their eyes twinkling like stars. Divine Justinia’s like cool flickers of amber, but the other shadow’s like piercing, exploding suns.

 _“Run while you can! Warm them!”_  Divine Justinia calls out.

The shadow’s eyes glower.  _“We have an intruder. Slay the Qunari.”_

I swallow, but it’s too hard to breathe.

The energy snaps apart and the vision disappears. Cassandra presses to my side, crowding closer and closer, her fear replaced by anger. “You  _were_  there! Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?” She questions, harder and harder.

“ _I don’t know_ ,” I snap out and bare my teeth.

But Cassandra holds her ground.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place,” Solas says as he draws closer to the rift. “Khammana, we might be able to open and shut this rift safely with your mark, but it will attract attention.”

Cassandra turns to her soldiers. “Stand ready!”

All the soldiers prep, pulling their swords from sheaths, readying arrows against taut bows. And all eyes train to me.

I clench my jaw tight.

This…

The fear coils deep in my gut. This… this could kill me. But I raise my marked hand toward the rift. The magic within it pricks painfully and the air hums. Before us, energy stitches from the mark to the anchor. My nerves burn like my hand is submerged in burning coals, eating away until even I feel  _nothing_.

And that’s when the rift explodes outward.

A burst of raw light erupts and the ground trembles violently under our feet.

A horned beast rises up and blinks open  _seven_  beady, black eyes. And it turns, clicking deep black claws, and bares a mouthful of unnecessarily long teeth. It’s too tall – its four horns brush against the tethered edges of the rift and each claw dwarves us in size.

“ _Fuck_!” I scramble back as the  _massive_  demon bellows out a deafening roar.

“Now!” Cassandra shouts and arrows fly.

But the demon swats them away with a snap of an arm. It smiles wide, narrows black, inky eyes and  _cackles_. Lightning cracks around it as everyone attacks, but I focus my attention on the rift above. It’s bright like the sun, but green and growing fast.

I raise my marked hand to the rift, feeling the magic ripple through the scars in my arm. I will the magic out, allowing it to stitch with the rift, letting it pool before I rip away. The rift’s energy explodes outward and strikes the demon.

It howls out in pain and it drops to a knee.

Arrows fly, swords hit its exoskeleton, magic strikes, but the horned demon doesn’t fall. It pulls itself up and looks right to  _me_. Its glossy black eyes narrow and it pulls its lips back into a scowl, snapping its too-long fangs together before lightning crackles against its body at a greater intensity.

Shit.

It roars and whips a lash of lightning forward.

“Khammana!” Voices shout out as I jump out of the way.

But I’m not fast enough; the lightning strikes and sends me cascading into a stone wall. Something cracks and I hit the ground.

Everything hurts, even breathing. Speckles of blood coat my lips, and my left arm feels dislocated. A few of my ribs feel cracked too.

The horned demon laughs as my vision blurs with tunnels of black.

Everyone struggles, and I hear all of it.

I don’t know if I can get up. I don’t know if I can stand.

But my companions are struggling. I watch as the horned demon lifts up one of the soldiers and snaps their neck like they’re nothing but a ragdoll. The archers are all thrown about. The demon traps Varric beneath a cage of its claws. Cassandra’s bloodied and bruised, barely making a dent in its armor. Solas is fighting at a distance, but he too is beginning to falter; sweat and blood beading down his head.

This – I wasn’t made for this. I can’t do this.

But-

I blink.

_“We do not cower. We do not bend the knee to anyone. We are Vashoth.” My father had whispered to me when I was still a tiny toddler sitting upon his knee. My horns were only starting to grow in then, twinkling aches and pains that sometimes brought tears to my eyes. But my father had wiped away the wetness and brought a warmed cloth to my cheeks. “Take pride in who you are, my imekari.”_

The words spin through my mind. The words my father had said and the ones my mother taught to always hold close to my heart. If I had been raised under the Qun, I wouldn’t have known them, I wouldn’t have been taught the valuable lessons they brought me up to learn. They wouldn’t be sewn deep in my heart and every sinew of my body.

I am my parents’ daughter.

 I am Tal-Vashoth and I  _do not_  cower. I  _do not_  falter. I bow to  _no one_.

Through the searing pain, I push myself to my feet. I feel my blood soaking through my clothes. I catch myself on my feet and steady with a deep breath.

“ _Hey!_ ” I scream.

Immediately the horned demon pauses. It turns to me and pulls its lips back in utter delight. It frees Varric from his clawed cage as it stalks toward me.

“Khammana, don’t!” Solas shouts out.

But I raise my marked hand to the demon and let the magic flare. The pain is  _nothing_  compared to how the rest of my body feels.

The demon before me cackles and lightning charges between its claws.

“You’re done,” I hiss out and, with all of my coiled rage, the magic snaps out like a whip and wraps tightly around the demon.

It grunts and yowls in surprise as the light from the rift engulfs it.

The magic of the mark surges through me, electrifying every nerve and snapping at every bone. No, I’m not going to stop. I’m not going to let this pain cripple me.

A moment later, I whip my hand to the rift.

The demon roars in agony as its body is ripped to tattered shreds in the green magic of the mark. The rift swells wider as the demon reaches out with a half crumbled hand. Seven beady black eyes sear with cold flame, but the rift above fizzles and pops.

An agonizing wail sings from the rift, and many of the soldiers drop to their knees. Solas drops his staff and covers his ears quickly from the deafening noise, and the world around us burns unbearably hot for several seconds. I can feel the skin upon my body begin to crackle and sizzle from the heat, and I rip my hand away.

The rift implodes outward in a fiery rush of flame, ash, and smoke.

The demon rips apart into tatters, and from the smoke and soft wisps of red flame,  _something_  drops to the ground where the Andrastian statue used to stand.

My left arm hangs limply at my side but I stagger forward. Coughing out a gasp of blood, I join my companions.

Surprise flickers across us as we stare at the  _someone_  who has just dropped from the rift.

A woman; her face, hands, and clothes burnt and sooty hair singed. She’s trembling so terribly, her teeth chatter audibly. Heat and smoke rise from her body as she coughs out ash and soot. But when she raises her head, her eyes glow with the color of the Breach above.

“ _Oh_ ,” falls from her lips before she collapses into a heap at our feet.


	3. Rhaena

I stir with a shuttering gasp, and a cold chill creeps through my bones. Fingers twitching, I clutch at cotton pillows and a spread of blankets. Dawn breaks in the sky outside my window and a few birds flutter free, cawing in greeting to the morning.

But I’m trembling in my bed, slick in a cold sweat. A low whimper falls past my lips as I lean forward to switch on my bedside lamp.

I press a hand to my slick forehead and bite back a whimper.

 _That_. That nightmare.

There were too many glinting black eyes, long skeletal limbs, and a heat that  _burned_  against my skin and scorched it a crackling black. Long fangs – dripping with saliva and black ichor – snapped inches from my nose, and the stench on its tongue was  _death_ , and something else – something that curled my stomach and nauseated me as I awoke and gasped for brisk, morning air.

But I’m fine.  _I’m fine._

A nightmare is just that: a nightmare. It can’t grab me, it can’t kill me, and it can’t do anything else but twist fear steadily in my gut. A dream remains a dream.

I almost expect Rhys to slam open the door and jump onto my bed to welcome me to a new morning with eager kisses upon my chin but… sometimes I forget he’s gone. It’s hard not having him in my life after he’s been there for fourteen years, but life and death is a cycle.

Everyone lives.

Everyone dies.

That’s just how the world works.

What counts is the happiness and belonging you find.

But enough of the heavy stuff; I need to think straight. Get up, brush away the bedhead, wash my teeth and face, tend to the plants and my few chickens out back. Kiss my parents on their cheeks, wish my brother luck in his pre-med finals, and head off to work.

Such a busy morning, but it feels good to be busy.

The garden outside is growing firm with a rainbow of colors. From gorgeous red tomatoes – Red Lightning, Green Zebra, Lemon Boy – to my variety of hot and sweet peppers, and to my favorite of them all – purple bells. They are growing well, but none quite ripe enough yet. So, I uncurl the hose and dust them all with a spray of water, along with the bedded herbs near the pond.

None of them have been touched by rabbits and other wildlife, and I’m happy for that. Rhys had been great about keeping the rabbits, squirrels, and chipmunks in check so they wouldn’t go and devour the plants, rendering our ripe crop useless, and even with his absence many of the animals still haven’t returned.

Hell, I think my chickens scare them off now.

And almost on cue, one of them clucks and stirs from her nap, waiting at the edges of her gate. As I approach with their readied food and attention, the rest of the girls scatter out of their nests and greet me like my first little golden girl, Zemi.

They’re all a rainbow too; when I decided I wanted to raise backyard chickens, I knew I wanted to have each chicken a different color and various looks to the eggs they’d lay. Classic white, light brown, dark, even speckled olive!

Plus, having them here for me to pet and love upon has filled the gap I lost when Rhys passed.

I let the girls all perch in my lap or gather around for a few minutes as the sun rises against the horizon before I too pick myself up. I gather the laid eggs from their nests, and let them wander before scooting back into the comfort of my air-conditioned home.

Even in the budding spring, the humidity of my home already sticks to my skin. And I know it’s going to be a busy summer.

I wipe the eggs clean and settle them in the fridge for whoever might be interested in them next and finish the rest of my morning chores before I need to ready for work.

But a quick and sudden slam behind me startles me hard enough that the coffee mug I’m holding fumbles in my hands and shatters on the floor.

“Shit!” I curse, and behind me a gruff chuckle earns a glare.

My little brother – well, not quite  _little_ , he’s over six feet tall – stands in the doorway between the den and our open kitchen. His smug grin pulls at the edges of his lips and he squints dark eyes. “Clumsy, clumsy Rhaena,” he muses. “You shouldn’t handle coffee mugs if you know you’ll just end up breaking them.”

“Ass,” I snip. Enter my brother Blake, the bold and know-it-all  _dick_  that’s on his way to become a neurosurgeon.

“Childish,” he says with a tsk and shake of his head.

“Says the boy who’s still completing school.” I roll my eyes.

He scoffs, “The last semester of pre-med before I’m off to medical school. I’m not much younger than you.”

I spin and give him a brisk gesture of my hand. “Yet, I already have a job in my field. In  _New York City_ no less.”

“But you still live with mom and dad,” Blake counters. Ouch. “I, however, am only visiting for a week.”

I grit my teeth and open my mouth to speak, but I’m silenced by the quick sigh I’m all too familiar with; a voice that sings in my heart and makes me smile even when all I wish to do is scowl at my brother. “Enough, the both of you,” my mother orders from within the den. I hear her shuffle up from the couch and press into view right behind my brother and her white hair shimmers in the ambient kitchen light. “You two are together barely a day and already you’re at each other’s throats. Cool it.”

Blake sneers, but his eyes flicker with a mischievous glint. “Yes, mother,” he says.

I sigh, “Of course, momma.” I lower down to a knee to clean up the broken pieces of the mug.

My brother is a pain in the ass, yes, but… I still love him. He and I clash, there’s no way around that. We’re complete opposites, and yet.

Yet.

I don’t think I could live without him in my life.

* * *

 

By the time the clocks read eight, I’m washed, changed, and have my bag in hand. My brother retreated to his room, probably to catch up on sleep, after all I often hear him scuffling about at three in the morning most nights. Seeing him up at seven is almost a cause for celebration.

I close out my room, put my computers and game consoles to sleep, and shuffle down from the bedrooms to find both of my parents curled gently together in the den.

A smile crosses my face.

A month or so ago, my father lost his job. Though, at the time, it was terrible, I found it has helped him realize some of the things he has taken for granted. I have never seen him or my mother happier; I have never seen my dad so airy and bright, so concerned about his health. They both even spent more and more time out with their friends, and sometimes even our roles would feel reversed and I end up scolding them if they come home late for a dinner I promised to cook them. After a few bashful ‘ _sorry’s’_  and giggles, we end up eating anyway.

Dad turns toward me and blinks forest green eyes. “Heading out now?” he asks, and my momma glances over with a cheerful smile.

I nod my head briskly and offer a turn of my head. “Yeah, got a few projects to finish up,” I say.

My father nods in understanding. “Will you be home for dinner?” he asks. “We’re thinking of going to hibachi.”

 _Oh yes._  I’ll make it for that.

“Definitely.” My grin twists wide, from ear to ear.

But my father perks a brow. “You don’t have that game to finish? What’s it called…?”

“Inquisition?” I ask.

When he nods, I roll my shoulders and straighten proudly.

“Nah, I finished the main story,  _and_  the DLC,” I explain.

My father blinks. “I have no idea what DLC means.”

“Downloadable content?” I tilt my head.

But he just shrugs.

“Don’t worry about it, but yes, I’ll be back for dinner.” I pass a wink their way. “Have fun golfing. Expect me at maybe six or so.”

My grin remains.

I love seeing them happy. I love seeing them together.

I am one of the lucky ones, I think. There are many families who don’t have quite the bond I have with my parents and brother; a relationship we have to care so deeply for each other that we’d drop everything to be pressed side by side.

I’d give my job and my purpose for my family. I’d give my life for my family. I don’t know what would happen if I have to live without them. Just the thought of that sends a dreadful chill cascading through every nerve and bone in my body.

I twist the key in my Charger and it roars to life, beckoning a smug grin to cross my face. But I flick off the radio and replace it with one of my own playlists and on starts the mix of multiple gaming and movie scores I’ve collected for my eclectic taste. And it’s all for my career, one I’m proud to have.

Games and movies and television are my study materials. I work in the entertainment industry, mostly helping to create monsters and characters and believable stories. I’ve created characters I love like a mother would a child; sometimes I wish they were truly here, but other times I want them to remain fiction.

Who wouldn’t love that? And there are games like Inquisition – or really, as it’s called –  _Dragon Age_ , that spurred on that love. Games like Dragon Age were the ones I became engrossed in, always wanting to learn more and more of their world. It didn’t stop even when I attempted to teach myself bits and pieces of the elven language from the game.

Then again, people shouldn’t fault me for this; I did much the same for the elvish tongues in Tolkien’s familiar works, and Martin’s adapted television series of A  _Song Of Ice And Fire_ for Valerian and Dothraki.

There are characters I love, characters I hate, and characters I hate to love, in every one of these worlds – these vast imaginative constructs done by people much like me. They feel real, they  _are_  real. They help people like me to escape from the reality of our world.

We’re living on the brink, where one small step can send our peoples tumbling into the abyss of destruction to our societies and ways of life.

Our comforts.

Our homes.

Our happiness.

All extinguished with the wave of a greedy, corrupted hand. We stand on the precipice of utter collapse, the bite of swinging the hammers of church and state, at the mercy of those in power who’d rather see us crushed into the dirt than have their egos bruised. And we’re all going to pay for such momentous mistakes.

And I am afraid.

For myself.

For my parents.

For my brother.

But there have been meetings between world leaders, factions of countries, and news that tell us ‘ _all is well_ ’. Agreements were struck; weapons put away, rations and laws written into the word of men. But how much can really lessen the fear that curls its fingers tightly around our hearts and lungs? How can we believe the liars, the kings, the autocrats?

With a sigh, I rub a hand across my temple and lean back against the cloth of my seat. Traffic is a slow crawl but, looking at the clock, I’m sure I’ll have enough time to get into the Port, grab a coffee, and make it to work with enough time to get comfortable and figure out the plan for the rest of the week. I only had a few paintings to finish and deliver to my art director before I call it a day.

But-

-Something isn’t right.

Cars halt, and past the mirror, birds start to scatter.

I press my foot to the Charger’s brake, and lean forward to watch as several birds, no  _dozens_ , start to scatter. Their calls are distressed, powerful – frightened.

One of my hands leaves the wheel to silence the soundtrack that set my heart afire, until all there is stilled silence. Or no, there isn’t silence. Not anymore.

A high wail shatters in the air, past the honking of impatient car drivers, past the frightened screams of birds, and the heightening voices of concern.

Red brake lights glow with every car lined for New York, and several people pull themselves from their cars to stare toward the sky.

The wails are  _sirens_ , warnings. A call we’ve known since we’re children. A call that chills my blood cold; a call that causes every fiber of my being to begin to tremble. Please let this be a drill.

 _Please let this be a drill_.

I twist around, eyes flicking from every car that surrounds the route. There’s no way for me to turn around, to get out of this mess. But I need to get home. I need-

A blinding flash of  _hot_  light blinds all and sends a rocking shutter through me. I shield my face, and can already feel cold sweat beading down my forehead.

The wails ring deafeningly in my ears, and I blink away the too bright, white spots and slowly pull my eyes away from the cool blacks of my car now glinting red.

A strangled cry rips from my lips at the angry, blackened clouds that plume in New York’s heart. Rings of flame engulf what’s left of the silhouetted city. The blues of the sky are eaten away by snapping orange fumes, and the sun has turned to blood.

Before my eyes, the vast skyscrapers in the distance shatter like paper castles, and the air spins.

The earth beneath the cars trembles violently, and I swing open the Charger’s door and collapse into blistering heat. No, this can’t-

 _It can’t_.

The ground sizzles beneath my hands and I jump up with a startled gasp. Tears dry on hot cheeks, and an echoing boom sends us all to our knees.

The air whips and cuts with hailing ash, glass, and debris before blood-curdling screams cause me to double over and empty the contents of my stomach on the hot, blistering earth.

People are running, and someone smashes into the Charger’s door, knocking it into my right shoulder. The pain echoes through every nerve and I know it’s splintered, but I scramble up through the agony and fingers grasp for my phone tucked into a cup holder. I wrench it free, twist away from the Charger, and  _run_.

High waves of blistering heat strips the sky of any blue and bleaches the world around us in charring blacks, bloody reds, and an ever consuming and suffocating blast of  _inferno_.

The earth trembles beneath our feet, knocking many to the asphalt that cracks and bubbles with heat.

Overhead, a voice booms. “ _Attention. Attention. This is the Emergency Broadcast System-”_

My hair blows free from its braid, white locks stained with soot and burns, edges singed. The sweat upon my skin is cool compared to the heat in the air.

_“-Take shelter immediately. Take shelter immediately-”_

“ _My god-_ ” Someone cries out in the chaos. “ _Lord have Mercy on us all-!”_

People cry and scream and sob. Children wail and choke on the heat and debris.

I need to get home. I need to get to my family.

_“This is not a drill. Repeat-”_

My moth- momma.

My fa- daddy.

_“-This is not a drill-”_

And my little brother. Blake.

I need them. I need to be there; I need to hold them close. If this is our last day, our last moments. Then – then –

Heat eats at us and tears bubble on our cheeks.

My phone-

_“-Attention. This is the Emergency Broadcast System-”_

I stumble to dial. There’s service still. I dial for  _Mom_  and press the heated phone to my ear. The ring barely starts past echoing static. “Momma-” I choke out.

_“-Take shelter immediately. Take shelter immediately-”_

“Rhaena-!” A strangled voice sounds on the other end, hissing in and out with snaps of static. “Where are-!”

_“This is not a drill. Repeat-”_

The phone burns hot in my hands. “Momma” - I gasp out achingly, screaming above the strangled cries – “Get to safety! Get Daddy and Blake. Get to safety  _now_!”

The other end of the phone hisses along with the low echo of my mom’s voice. “Rhae – where – you-!” I can barely hear her voice. I can barely hear my  _mother’s_  voice.

_“-This is not a drill-”_

I gasp into the phone. “Bomb! In New York! I don’t know if-”

The phone sparks and singes until the flesh of my hand and ear scar and bubble. I gag on a cry as my phone falls from my hands and splits against the erupting asphalt.

_Shit!_

The heat is crackling against my skin and my entire body pounds in agony as black soot cracks across my cheeks. My eyes water and burn-

\- Before another flash of white blinds all and the rip of fire and heat drives me into the ground.

 _“-Attention. This is the Emergency Broadcast System-”_ cuts out as a second bomb rips through the abandoned cars and knocks them into the thundering, fiery wind.

Scars and blackened pus crack upon my skin and I look up to the blooming rings of fire that tremble closer and closer. Bridges shatter and collapse and I gaze to the bleeding sky. The sun is gone, blocked by massive fumes of smoke.

I won’t make it home.

This is where I’m going to die.

I won’t see my parents again. I won’t see my brother again.

Our lives will flicker out like tiny flames upon the whisks of candles.

I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the end as debris flies and cuts across my cheeks, arms and tattered clothes. But a cool hand suddenly clasps against my shoulder and I choke on a strangled cry.

My eyes snap open and the flames warp before me. The world cuts and tsunamis of flame drench the cool world in destruction and consuming fire. Until it’s suddenly gone - until I’m violently ripped backwards.

Behind me, a swell of blinding light staggers wide. And it’s like hitting icy water and shattered glass.

I slam down into solid ground, and every atom of my body tremors. But the earth and stone beneath my ravaged hands is cool and I scrape my fingers against it with desperate need.

I cough out ash and smoke, and I can feel wisps of heat radiating from the burn scars across my cheeks and visible bits of skin.

But when the white dots bleed from my vision, there’s no overwhelming plume of red and nauseating orange. Instead, night grips the winds coolly around me, and I suck in a heady bite of winter air.

It wretches a whimper from my lips and I loll my head upwards. I blink wide and stare up at faces, unmarked by flame or debris. Small flickers of purple charge across one man’s staff, and others are covered with cuts and wounds. But none burnt. There are no plumes of violent reds in the sky, and no bloody sun.

But there’s a familiarity. One of them has horns. Many bare swords and bows, but I cannot question it as black tunnels my vision.

“ _Oh_ ,” slips from my lips before all goes black.


	4. Khammana

It takes three days for everything to heal. Which – considering I had cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder – isn’t very long; but none of my company ever specialized with spirit healing. Mostly they just lobbed around fireballs and ice shards; hell, Sataa was shit with barriers too.

But the more pressing issues are the Breach and the… odd young woman who fell from the rift once we vanquished what I now know to have been a pride demon. But this girl was scorched from head to toe, her clothes barely hanging on in tatters. The stench of burning and charred flesh was almost too much, and bile stung the back of my throat.

But we learned quickly she was an elven girl, though her ears were badly burnt away in places and covered with charred ash. Hell, half her face was burnt so badly, it was hard thinking she was going to make it back to Haven.

Yet she did though, even now, she’s hanging on by a thin thread.

Thankfully though, Adan and Solas both say she’ll pull through with supervision and proper care. But  _how_  she was burnt so badly is beyond me. I can still picture the heat radiating from her body as she collapsed before us. Many of the soldiers were afraid to touch her in fear she was an abomination pulled from the Fade, but Solas was not so hesitant.

Though he was bloodied, bruised, and exhausted from the fight he didn’t stop himself from pulling the cloaks from two fallen soldiers, wrapping the girl in them, and hoisting her into his arms.

Now she rests in a poorly supported cot in one of our prison cells, much to my dismay.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.”

I snap back to attention at the bitter words that drip from Chancellor Roderick.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it.” Cassandra straightens from her position besides a massive war table, clad in a vast, painted map that dictates Fereldan and Orlais. The faintest hints of Tevinter, Nevarra, and other countries dwindle along the edges.

My fingers twitch at mention of the Breach, and the mark tingles numbly. It doesn’t painfully twinge anymore; instead, it’s dull, like a scar that echoes with the memories of pain.

I glance to the Chancellor but keep myself straightened, aligned. I tower over him, and now my face and horns are shadowed by the candlelight flickering around us. “So, I’m still a suspect in your eyes, Lord Chancellor?” I ask.

“You absolutely are,” the Chancellor hisses between clenched teeth, but he cannot hide his quick recoil from me.

“No, she is not.” Cassandra steps forward. She may be hard to read, but she’s a respectable warrior. Unlike this spineless man spitting out useless words.

“Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect,” Leliana, at Cassandra’s side, adds in. “Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live.”

“ _I_ am a suspect?” the Chancellor asks in disbelief.

“You, and many others,” continues Leliana.

“But  _not_  the prisoner,” the Chancellor spits and snaps at me in utter disgust.

“I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called to her for help.” Cassandra nods to me.

“So her survival, that  _thing_  on her hand – all a coincidence?” the Chancellor asks.

“Providence,” she counters. “The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

I don’t believe in their Andraste. I certainly do not believe in the elven gods either; those are tales kept alive by the wandering ones, merely just stories to keep their spirit alive. Whether or not a Maker truly exists, well, I cannot speak to that.

“So, you’ve changed your mind about me?” I note.

“I was wrong. Perhaps I still am,” Cassandra says. “I will not, however, pretend you were not exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“The Breach remains and your mark is still our only hope closing it,” Leliana adds.

“This is  _not_  for you to decide,” the Chancellor snaps. “And what about the other prisoner? The abomination. Are you going to let an abomination just walk  _free_?”

A cold sneer pulls across Cassandra’s features. “I am not speaking about the girl in the dungeons right now.” She slams a tightly bound leather book on the table. It’s old, its pages worn, and the Divine’s sigil is clasped to the cover. “You know what this is, Chancellor,” Cassandra continues. “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

Cassandra gracefully approaches the Chancellor like a lion would a lamb, who backs up step by step. The woman warrior is firm and hard as she speaks, “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

The Chancellor pulls his lips up in a scowl and rears back. He turns on a heel and vacates the room like a child in the midst of a tantrum. The door slams behind him but Cassandra sighs, running a hand through her cropped hair.

“This is the Divine’s direction: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos,” Leliana continues on for Cassandra. A wry half-smile pulls at the corner of her lips until it suddenly vanishes. “We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“But we have no choice: we must act now” - Cassandra sighs and glances to me - “with you at our side.”

“Me?” I perk a brow and tilt my head, careful not to let the curl of my horns brush against the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling overhead. “But  _I_ am a Tal-Vashoth mercenary. I get paid to guard, kill, and spill blood. I doubt I’m the type of person you need.”

“You are  _exactly_  the type of person we need,” Cassandra says. “We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more.”

“But your Chantry…”

“The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction,” Leliana adds in.

“But  _we_  cannot wait. So many grand clerics died at the Conclave…” Cassandra continues. “No, we are on our own. Perhaps forever.”

I take a moment to breathe deeply and let the lights of the candles flicker across the map. This is… unexpected. Unprecedented. No Tal-Vashoth mercenary has ever willingly helped the faithful spread their doctrines. “If you really wish to restore order…”

“That is the plan,” the spy at our side nods.

“Help us fix this, before it’s too late.” Cassandra extends her hand.

Shokrakar is going to kill me, I know it.

But I reach forward and clasp my hand to the Seeker’s.

* * *

 The following few days are a blur of activity and movement; birds sent out with their messages, and many people begin to assemble.

An overwhelming number of templars that have already gathered have traded their armor for the banner of the Inquisition, but some remained due to the rumor of the  _abomination_  in the prisons. But I do not believe the injured girl to be an abomination; just someone in desperate need of help.

But that didn’t stop several templars from being stationed outside her prison gate even when she wasn’t being tended to by either Adan or Solas. But she still hasn’t woken up or opened her eyes.

“Is your mark troubling you?” Cassandra asks as she walks at my side. We press on through the halls of the Chantry as I blink and straighten.

“Hmmm? No, I was thinking about the girl in the prison.”

“Ah, the abomination.” Cassandra says.

“I don’t think she is,” I counter. “Sure, she looked like she  _could_  be with her skin and clothes all burnt and fried. But she didn’t attack us.” I’ve never met an abomination, but I know the stories out of the Fereldan Circle and the Annulment in Kirkwall. “If she’s an abomination, wouldn’t she have attacked us?”

“Demons are clever,” Cassandra says. “Sometimes they may attack outright, but other times they’ll hide and wait. They’ll sit patiently, let people trust them and then turn on us. It’s best to be cautious with a suspected abomination. We’ve brought on just the soldier to help us with abominations that hide in plain sight. I’ll introduce you to him soon enough, but what is important right now is that your mark is stable, as if the Breach.” Cassandra leans over and brushes the edges of her fingers across the new stitched cloth of my winter attire. “You’ve given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed, provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

“And that power may make things worse, we don’t know,” I point out.

Cassandra grins. “And people call me a pessimist.”

“I’m not a pessimist,” I argue good-heartedly. “Just an idealist. A  _sensible_  idealist.”

“You sound like Solas.”

I scoff and roll my eyes. I don’t know Solas well; only that he’s an apostate and a damn fine expert in spirits, the Fade, and magic. “Not really. I need to see all sides of the battlefield for what I do. I need to see all possible outcomes, both good and bad.”

“Ah, yes, a commendable way to look at things. Are all of your company much the same?”

I chuckle. “No, but I am my leader’s second. I was sent as the leader of my group to keep peace at the Conclave, so she must have some faith in me.”

“Your company’s leader is a woman?” Cassandra raises a brow.

“Indeed.” And she’ll be expecting a raven with news.

News that she will not be pleasant to hear with some of my men still missing.

I tuck my horns past the opened Chantry door. Past that, circled around the assembled map of Thedas and miniature wooden statuettes three humans stand. I recognize Leliana, twisted in her robes of blue, black, and silverite. And the second, a man, with hair the color of a midday sun, and reddish-brown fur draped across his shoulders. He looks too comfortable in his armor, probably spending too many hours of his days head to toe in heavy metals and leathers.

“May I present Commander Cullen, leader of the Inquisition’s forces,” Cassandra begins with a nod to him. “He was present during the events of the Fereldan Circle and the Annulment in Kirkwall.” Cassandra’s abomination expert, it seems.

“Such as they are,” the Commander addresses me and gives a slight, respectful bow of his head. “We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more before this is through.”

Cassandra twists my attention to the third, and final of our gathered trio – a woman wrapped in ruffles of gold, trills of blackened leathers, soft pheasant feathers, and with a pleasant glow to her dark skin.

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.” I hear Cassandra express, but it’s drowned out by the glimmer in the ambassador’s eye, the heady swirl of bronze speckles amongst the dark copper. Beautiful shades.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until I feel a crinkle peel through the scar beneath my left eye. And when Josephine smiles too and offers a respectful nod, I tilt my head to the side softly and feel the rush of heat to my cheeks. Something plucks in my chest, knotting tight where my heart should be. Something unfamiliar.

But unfortunately, Cassandra twists my attention away until my gaze flicks to Leliana moving one of her carved ravens across a marking on Fereldan’s map. “And of course you know Sister Leliana.”

Leliana briskly bows. “My position here involves a degree of…”

 “She is our spymaster,” Cassandra ends for her.

“Yes, tactfully put, Cassandra,” Leliana snipes.

“I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.” Cassandra presses her hands to the war table and her eyes sweep over the markers for Fereldan, Orlais, and some of their notable locations. I recognize the Hinterlands, Val Royeaux, and a soft scribble for the Free Marches and Kirkwall up in the corners.

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” Leliana says.

And put ourselves right in the middle of a civil war knocking on the doors to all of Thedas’s nations?

“And I still disagree. The templars could serve just as well,” Cullen rebuttals.

Cassandra sighs. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark-”

“Might destroy us all,” Cullen interrupts. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so-”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana adds.

“ _I_ was a templar. I know what they’re capable of,” Cullen says with a raise of his brow and an evident twitch of his lips.

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet,” Josephine states calmly. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition – and you, specifically.” She gestures to me.

I sigh. “They still think I’m guilty, and I understand why. They lost the Most Holy. I was one of the two only survivors. They have to find someone to cling to.”

“That is not the entirety of it any longer,” Josephine continues. “Some are calling you – a Qunari – the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ That frightens the Chantry. The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harboring you and the young woman in our stocks they believe to be an abomination.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra says. I have no doubt at all.

“We don’t even know if the woman  _is_  an abomination.” I grit my teeth.

Leliana clears her throat. “Even if we tried to stop this view from spreading-”

“Which we have not,” Cassandra interrupts.

Leliana raises a brow. “The point is, everyone is talking about you and that girl.”

“It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about being called the Herald of Andraste?” Cullen asks.

I clear my throat. “I never claimed to be gifted by the Maker or Andraste. If they wish to believe it, that’s their right.” I itch my fingers across the numbing ache of my mark.

Cassandra straightens, her eyes wide, and her mouth agape for a moment before she speaks, “You don’t believe you were gifted by the Maker or Andraste?”

“No.” I pause. “There’s a lot to consider in all this. There’s magic in this world we can’t even comprehend.  _Old_  magic. Whether or not I was actually gifted by the Maker or Andraste, I cannot tell you as I do not know. All I know is that this mark” - I raise my left hand - “is connected to the Breach in the sky.”

  “Hmph, well, the Chantry has decided how you should feel about the title, it seems,” Cullen remarks.

“People are desperate for a sign of hope. You’re that sign,” Leliana says.

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong,” Josephine adds finally.

“And the Chantry  _is_  concerned about the Breach, but they just don’t think I can stop it,” I hiss. “They think I’ll make it worse. So, let’s begin small.”

My four companions – or,  _advisors_  – look to me, and I catch Cullen’s light blue gaze.

“Commander,” I say, and he snaps to attention. “I’m not a templar so, tell me; what are the procedures with dealing with a potential abomination?”

“Ah.” Commander Cullen’s fingers twitch against one of his carved sword statuettes. “Yes, well. Herald, may I ask; have you ever encountered an abomination?”

“Not that I remember, no.”

“Trust me, you’d remember,” the Commander says. “Abominations occur when a mage is exposed to a demon’s influence. Sometimes they twist into horrors, but other times they look as normal as you or me.”

“And the dangers of one?” I ask.

“Must be avoided at all costs.” Cullen’s voice goes cold. “They will either seek to create more of their kind, luring more mages into demonic influence, or they will attack and ravage. The more powerful the demon, the greater the risk, so we cannot sit idly by if one is in our midst.”

“And how do you we check in case the young woman in our prison is an abomination?” I ask. “She still hasn’t woken.”

“Some mages  _claim_  that a certain spell can check. Apparently some sort of offensive spell that does little harm to the mage in question, but it’s theorized a demon would react on instinct to block the blast from injuring them.  _If_  you want to believe said rumor, but there’s a method that’s been proven to work.”

“And that is?”

“It involves a templar and our abilities to block magic. It has always worked to draw an abomination out when tested.”

“But if she’s not possessed, will it hurt her?”

The Commander shuffles briefly and thickly swallows. “Yes. There will always be pain for the mage. That can’t be avoided, unfortunately.”

“Will she die?”

“If she’s possessed? The templar will drive their sword through her, then yes, but if she’s not possessed, no. She’ll be hurt and extremely weak, but she’ll live.”

 “I feel it worth the risk,” Leliana speaks up. “We must be sure we won’t have an abomination ready to destroy us from the inside out.”

“Then let’s see to it,” Cassandra gruffly adds in. “Who is in favor of testing this apostate for possession?”

“Aye,” say all but I. Silence hangs from me, and soon a scowl twists across my face. If the young woman had been Sataa…

 If it was Sataa…

I’d let them proceed still but…

“Fine,” I concede. “But before we begin this, let me fetch Adan and Solas.”

“Why would you wish to have two more mages with us?” Leliana questions with a narrow of her eyes. “Would you really want to risk demonic influence and possession in them in case she is indeed an abomination?”

“No, but Solas is an expert of the Fade and spirits,” I say. “And in case she  _isn’t_  possessed, I don’t want this experience crippling her physically or spiritually. As it is, she is already extremely weak. This experience could  _kill_  her, even if she isn’t possessed. I don’t want that on my head. We need healers for her.”

Cassandra and Commander Cullen share a glance, but after a silent nod from the Seeker, Cullen grunts.

“Very well. Fetch them.”


	5. Rhaena

A breathy tune brushes against my ear and I press to the edges of cotton pillows. Soft clouds billow before my eyes as I lean into a sea of twining clothes and warmth.

A soft whimper slithers past my lips as my eyes search for the face whom the hum belongs to. Tears rush down from my eyes until someone catches them with a thumb.

The scent of freshly roasted almonds and magnolia petals draws my attention away until I stare into familiar umber eyes. A warming smile presses across her aged face and her white hair glimmers with the softest wisps of light.

She captures a soft, strangled cry from my lips with a finger – “Momma.”

This shouldn’t be real. It  _can’t_  be. The bombs were no dream; I felt the unbearable heat scarring across my skin, the earth crumbling beneath my feet, the skyscrapers in New York flittering apart like they were nothing but shredded paper bits. My shoulder had been shattered, and my vision had been bleached with sickly oranges and bloody reds. No dream could portray the intensity or the reality of my nerves burning away until there was nothing else.

I’m dead.

My parents, my brother –  _gone_.

My world –  _gone_.

However, there’s a flash of images – a horned giant with curled horns coated with metal, a scarred warrior heavy in armor, sword and shield, a man with the sharpest of ears and a carved staff balanced at his side. Images I saw for a mere moment before all went black.

But the image of my momma shushes me ever so gently, the tip of her painted blue finger whisking away the tears that roll down my cheeks. “Everything’s alright, my darling,” she coos. “I am here.”

Heat rolls off my body in suffocating waves, the trickle of  _something_  more than heat that caresses like soft prickling, but my mother’s touch remains cool against my cheek. I raise my hand to press my fingers to her knuckles, but I feel nothing but cloud; no touch, no memory of her next to me.

And a whimper rips from my lips.

My eyes flutter open softly, but she’s still there, at my side, tracing her fingers along my wrists, cooling the feverish pitch of heat that cloaks my skin. She drags my wrists to the center of my chest, where I can feel the steady pitch of my heart begin to temper higher with fervor.

She taps the edges of my palms and the pulse at my wrists before I watch her expression twist into a deepened scowl, her eyes glazy, and with a shutter of her breath she speaks, “Why did you leave?” she asks, and her words clumsily crack.

My brows knit together and I try to sit up, but my momma raises a hand and pushes into my shoulder urgently – and with a startling amount of force.

I bite on a gasp and my eyes flick wide. “What-?”

“You left us.” There’s an icy coolness in the shade of her warm umber eyes. Something darker, something dreadful. It clutches long, invisible fingers around my beating heart and sends a chill deep down my spine. “You left us to  _die_.”

This -

\- This isn’t my mother.

“You’re not” – I gasp out painfully and try to rip away from the touch that burns across my wrists – “you’re not her.”

And  _it_  smiles; flashes a mouthful of too-many, too-long serrated teeth dripping with black ichor. I watch in horror as my mother’s whitened curls begin to drip with steaming tar, and the flesh upon her face peels away to gaunt bone and sockets filled with milky eyes.

The nightmare leans forward, snaps its teeth to wrench another whimpering cry from my lips. The invisible tendrils around my heart and lungs squeezes tighter and tighter, the nerves in my body beginning to dance with pain. The stench of death and decay is heavy on the nightmare’s tongue, but the scent of roasted almonds still clings to it.

“Indeed,” it purrs and traces the lines of my arms with pointed talons. “But, I do want something from you.”

“And what is that?” I demand, fighting past the tears threatening to flow from my glassy eyes.

A smirk smears across its face. “I want to hear you  _scream-_ ”

It crushes into my heart with agony, of blades of ice striking the rolling heat clinging to my skin.

With a cry falling from my lips, an icy grip rocks from within my heart to every nerve in my body – from my neck, arms, wrists, even to my toes until all I feel is an agonizing numbness.

I cannot move.

The veins beneath my skin shimmer brightly with a bloody crimson glow, and dot my lips red. The visage of the nightmare flickers in and out; billowing clouds and dripping black ichor snapping away to iron armor, a brilliant cerulean glow, and a feathered helm facing me down.

From beyond the darkness of the helm, two eyes glow blue, but armored fingers dig deep into my hands bound against my chest.

Heat clashes with ice, radiating off every inch of my skin.

But the agony rips away all sense.

It flashes my mind blank with a detached numbness. And then it’s -

\- Quite suddenly gone, and the armored beast pulls away.

“I am sorry,” a voice whispers above me, but it’s dulled, barely an echo.

I taste blood on my tongue and I choke on it as it coats my throat. Tears drip from my eyes, and  _something_  warm flows from my nose and ears.

“Clean,” another voice echoes in the distance, but darkness tugs me deep, urging me to close my eyes.

I blink past spots of red and try to  _see_.

Silhouettes circle in the warming light of a single torch.

“Happy now?” A grunting voice belongs a shadow with horns, but my eyes can’t focus.

And I still can’t move.

Until something cool wipes the blood from my lips, and a smooth voice cuts through the darkness. “You’re safe,” they say and press a cup to my lips. A splash of water slips past into my throat and I stutter out a gasp, but the voice above attempts to soothe. “Drink. You’ll feel better.”

But-

Still, I let the cool drink slither past my lips and wash down my raw throat. I blink past the red spots in my eyes and stare up at the chiseled, shadowed face above me. But it’s too dark; I cannot see. Only the curve of long, sharp ears.

I clear my throat and grimace. “Where-”

But the shadow above shakes their head. “Don’t try to speak,” they say smoothly. “You need rest.”

I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to fall into darkness or in that nightmare’s claws again. I remember the bombs. I remember the heat. I remember the visceral fear coursing through my blood as I ran screaming, on bloody legs. I still feel the fire and heat crackling through my skin.

But a soft humming plucks the air and brushes against my skin until I feel the binds tight around my wrists come free.

A harsh tone splinters the silence. “Do not free the prisoner,” a voice spits. “Solas, that-”

“Let him,” another commands. “We’ve checked her and she’s clean. There’s no need to torture her anymore.”

But the sharp-eared one that presses a cup to my lips hums once more. “Thank you, Khammana.”

A wet cloth brushes across my cheeks, nose, and ears. When it’s drawn back, even in the shadows, I see the glimmer of drying blood.

“Please-” I gasp out, and the smooth shadow above me is quick to wipe the speckled blood from my lips again.

“Hush,” they whisper. Cool fingertips brush against the heat and sweat that paints my forehead. A ribbon of green wraps across in the darkness and presses against the heat of my skin, against the faint glow of crimson.

My eyes train on the wisps and they wrap softly around my fingers, up along my arms, until they rest against my brows. My eyes burn, heavy and lulled from the glow of green.

And when my eyes flutter shut, a dreamless sleep pulls me away from the heat and pain.

* * *

 When breathing comes easier, when I intake a breeze of winter air, I curl my fingers in a cut of cloth and press against the smoothed line of a wooden wall. A warmth flickers past my eyelids, and something else.

Something scratches against a surface and the sound chirps in my ears.

A humming brushes against my skin and draws the hair straight, spreading gooseflesh up the length of my arms. But it’s not a blistering, unbearable heat. It’s unusual; not the warmth of a fire or the bite of a bomb, but something… I don’t know.

Something I can’t name.

When I attempt to stretch, it draws a cracked moan from my lips.

The scratching pauses and the legs of a chair creak, but then silence.

A low knot in my stomach twists, and something pricks against my skin again.

My eyes slowly flutter open, and I blink past blurry visages until I spot the soft, lapping flames of a fire and the insides of a wooden cabin. There’s a chill against my back, and a winter breeze nips at my cheeks.

It’s too dark out, too cold.

Had the smokes of the bombs permanently blocked the sun from the lands? Did the bombs cloak us in a cold darkness of white ash and death?

But instead of a devastated, destroyed cabin, my eyes finally focus and I’m met by the sharp gaze of a gray-faced, horned giant. But they’re familiar, and the wisp of glowing green in their hand is even more so.

But confusion grips me tighter.

 _Where the hell am I_?

A smile pulls across the horned giant’s face. “Good, you’re finally up,” they say. “I was starting to worry you weren’t going to wake. Are you hungry?”

But I don’t let a single word slip from my lips. Instead, my eyes flick away from their calculating gaze to the swords mounted on the walls, the decorations of leather and sigils, and the odd flasks and goblets strewn across a few rounded tables. The stuffed head of a… creature is mounted over the top of the fireplace, and a coal encrusted cauldron sits over the flame. The scent of whatever it is rolls my stomach and I swallow.

Whatever it is smells  _divine_. It’s warm and, even on the air, there’s the roasted scent of meat and bubbling broth. But I clench my jaw and press against the cool wooden wall at my back.

The horned giant rises from a chair that’s far too small for them and lays a bird’s feather – quill? – to their desk. Instead, they take a step toward  _me_ , and I flinch under their watchful gaze and scramble in the furs I’m sprawled over.

But the giant stills and purple eyes scan me gently. “It’s okay,” they whisper. They turn away to the cauldron and reach for a wooden bowl. Pulling a ladle free, they pour a steaming stew.

My gaze flicks to and fro, before the giant turns to me and inches forward, pushing the stew onto a stand beside my cot.

“You should eat,” the giant points to the bowl with a tip of their ladle. “It’ll help you regain your strength.”

I look to the dish on the stand and bite at my lip, fighting past my hunger.

“No, really.” The giant fills their own bowl and takes a large bite of the tender looking meat. “You look like death. It’s a miracle you’re even alive. You Andrastian? Well, your unusual magic kept you from slipping to your Maker’s side.”

Unusual magic?

Andrastian, Maker?

They speak of fictitious religions, and magic _doesn’t_ exist. What hell has this nuclear holocaust befallen them?

A sudden rasp against the door tightens every muscle in my body. “Herald! Commander Cullen has asked to speak with you.”

“Shit.” The giant clicks their tongue and scowls. They offer me an apologetic gaze. “It’s alright. Just… eat, okay?” They turn away, rest their brimming stew to their desk and stride to the door. A lock clicks, they slip through into cold, and finally the door closes behind them.

And that’s the moment tears find me. I choke on a gasping cry and press the tips of my fingers to my lips as water runs freely from my burning eyes.

What is this hell?

What have I done?

Have we erased the past several hundred years of advancements? The nukes have destroyed our way of life, our society, or energy and technology. Or I’m living in hell. That’s it. It  _has_  to be it. It’s some semi-consciousness to protect the last slivers of my mind from the reality that every sinew, tendon, and bone in my body has been devoured by nuclear fire, until I can slip away into a final expanse of darkness.

But I twist the cloths and furs tight between my fingers and it’s _too_ real. The flakes of snow passing through the window by my side melt on my shoulder, and that is too real. The humming of energy against my skin is unknown to me, but that too is unnaturally real.

This isn’t a dream or a semi-conscious state.

It’s  _real_.

And bile burns in my throat.

But instead, I fight the urge to vomit and toss my bare feet over the edges of the bed.

My shoes are gone and my toes and soles are stained with dirt and soot. But no burns or mangled flesh.

I try to take a deep breath, but it feels like a blade is stuck between my ribs. I hug an arm to my chest, but the pain doesn’t lessen. Instead, I press my feet to the cool stone of the ground and push myself up onto shaky legs.

And every inch of me aches. The hum that brushes against my skin now buzzes, twisting through every nerve. I clutch a hand around my chest, taking slow and steady breaths, and inch my way to the door.

Steadying my free hand on the door, I slip it open, just wide enough to taste the nip of clear, winter air. And I don’t care for the pain in my ribs as I breathe deeply.

There isn’t the taste of ash or death upon the wind; only the nipping of frost, the trail of evergreen and stirred dirt, and finally of flame licked logs.

No taste of bombs, their radiation. No snap of charred bone and cindered flesh.

Just calm, cooling winter.

And the confusion of such leaves me reeling.

An armored man passes the front of the door and, with a startled hiss, I slip the door shut and stagger back. But past the muffling of the wood and metal, the man heads away and the clink of his armor fades.

That horned giant may be back soon.

And I need to leave.

I squeeze open the door again and peek out into the dusk. A roar of laughter elicits a flinch, but that sounds far way. There aren’t any people outside the cabin, but there are a few in the distance. I could sneak past; find some garments to disguise myself. Get through.

But I don’t move more than a few feet before I freeze where I stand. My eyes train up toward the sky, to the  _rip_  that simmers there in a dormant storm of green and black. There’s no red, no bloodied sun. This tear is almost calm, but it’s an ever present force.

The buzzing along my skin hums softly, but my entire body begins to tremble. It’s so familiar, like – like –  _Haven_.

It can’t be.

I need to wake up. I need to.

This is all some sort of horrid, fever dream and I’m going to wake up in my bed at home. My parents will be safe and I’ll bicker with Blake again. I know too much of the Dragon Age world for this to be no more than a dream. I’ll be safe and that wish is all I want to hold onto-

\- Until an armored hand harshly clasps around my arm.

My eyes snap down and I stare into the slits of a feathered mask. A sword emblem is carved into the breastplate of the armor and cut Chantry robes flow around protected legs. A templar.

“Apostate.” The word slices deep, and past their mask is the low bloom of a bluish glow; a glow all too familiar. A sense of agony, of armored hands clasped tightly around binds and torment lighting every nerve aflame.

I bite on a low whimper, and the buzzing hum along my arms begins to drum violently. Red and white spots flash in front of my eyes and the memory of agony closes around my heart.

The templar gruffly nods. “You need-”

Everything snaps like a whip; the templar is thrown back, their grip ripped away by a flurry of sharp crimson flares. They slam into the wall of another wooden building so hard the echo reverberates through the icy town.

And the templar collapses to the ground in a motionless heap.

The ribbons of crimson wrap around my arms like they belong there, shimmering like trails of stardust and snow on the air.  _It’s_  what buzzes across my skin, but I don’t know what  _it_  is.

Several alarmed shouts slash through the air and bodies rush, and the next moment both the fallen templar and I are swarmed. I urge myself to fall back into the cabin, clasp a block over the door, and cower in the dark corner – but I cannot move.

I cannot even do anything as another armored soldier raises a sharpened blade to my neck.

“ _Blood mage_ ,” they hiss.

But I’m not a mage. And I’m not bleeding.

“What in the” - a flurry of feet rush, and several bodies join the growing crowd – “Oh, Maker.” The gruff voice belongs to a man with a golden head of hair, and with dark fur clasped around his shoulders. At his side, the horned giant; and the both of them watch as the thrown templar is hoisted up. But the templar’s feet drag through the snow as two soldiers pull them away.

“ _What’s the meaning of this_?” The golden-haired man commands and the rage in him pulls a flinch from me.

“This  _blood mage_  attacked Ser Jhaevan, Commander,” the templar with the raised blade hisses from between clenched teeth.

“I’m – I’m” – a shudder wracks through my limbs as I gasp out – “not a mage.”

“ _I saw you_!” The soldier howls and presses their blade closer until blood wells at the blade’s sharpened tip. “Show us the truth of what you are. Go on, before I slice open your pretty neck, knife-ear.”

“I’m not-” I fight to speak as tears well in my blurry eyes. I’m not a blood mage or an elf.

“Commander Cullen,” a voice speaks up. “Tell your soldier to stand down.”

The golden-haired man scowls. “But if she is a blood-mage-”

“We had her checked.” The horned giant narrows their eyes on him.

“To see if she was an abomination,” the Commander snaps. “Not if she was a blood mage.”

“Pardon me Herald, Commander.” A familiar, smooth voice stirs and the small crowd parts as another man slips through. He’s swift through the gathered people, barely touching any of the others, and his hands are pressed behind his back. “Perhaps I may be of some assistance.”

He comes to stand at the horned giant’s side and turns his head up with a tilt. His eyes glint with the bare light of dusk, and the reflection bounces off the sharp curve of his ears, bare head, and chiseled chin. The edges of his lips turn up into a gentle smirk, and around his neck dangles a leather bound trinket – a blackened wolf’s jawbone.

I know him.

 _Solas_.

The character I grew to love. The character I grew to love to hate.

Not many characters used to be able to surprise me like he had in the world of Dragon Age.

So, that’s the elf I saw earlier; the shadowed figure who gave me drink and ushered me back to sleep.

But he’s not fictitious; he’s really  _here_.

And whatever smile I thought I felt twitching across my face is now replaced by a quick, creeping  _dread_. I remember the events of the third game, its downloadable content, and  _The Masked Empire_. Now, all of it rushes back.

Everything’s clicking into place – or at least, most everything is.

There’s so much I still don’t understand.

But one thing is for certain; I can’t portray I know who he is. Or that I know who any of them are.  _Why would I_? They’d call me an abomination and kill me right then and there.

After seeing… the bombs devastate New York City, I knew I wasn’t ready to die. And though my heart pains for my dead family…  _I don’t want to die_.

 “And what do you think that would accomplish, Solas?” the Commander – no,  _Cullen_  – snaps. “If she  _is_ a blood mage, it’d be quicker to end her now before more people are hurt.”

“On this, Commander, I will have to disagree.” Solas’s grayed blue eyes flick and catch mine.

I stiffen.

“Look at her,” Solas says. “The only drop of blood on her is the one  _your_  soldier drew with the edge of his sword.”

“I  _saw_  her use blood magic,” the soldier counters.

“Or maybe, you simply saw her use  _magic_ ,” Solas rebuttals quickly. “Commander, we all know how the mage and templar war began. Let’s not repeat the same mistake here.”

Silence grips the crowd, and Cullen visible flinches. “Soldier, drop your weapon.”

 “But-”

“ _Drop your weapon_ ,” Cullen’s words shutter through my bones.

The soldier is quick, and the blade lowers.

I suck in a gasping breath and I drop to my knees, unable to soothe every tremble that rips through my limbs. The crimson ribbons and wisps of dust have faded away, but I still feel the unfamiliar buzzing tracing across my skin.

This can’t be magic. I’m  _not_  a mage. It shouldn’t be possible.

“Go back your own business, all of you!” The Commander orders, and the quick shuffling of boots disperses, but three shadows still pass over the snow. “She injured a templar, one of our soldiers. She will be tried for that. For now, she’s your responsibility.”

“Understood.” Solas’s smooth voice cements the end of the conversation, and Cullen trudges off.

But it’s Solas who takes a step forward, and the moment my eyes flick to him my body tenses. I watch as his gray eyes glimmer coolly.

I should run – no, I  _need_  to run. I’m just some  _blood mage_  – pariah – going to be tried for  _what exactly?_ Protecting myself?

My eyes flick to the horned giant, and I remember the image of them,  _her_ , easily now. And her name, like a whisper in the back of my mind; Khammana. The curve of her horns reflects the bare light of dusk, and the light of the Anchor burns dully in her gloved, left hand. The Anchor of  _Fen’Harel_ , not Andraste.

She bears the Anchor. I… I do not.

I am expendable.

I am the trouble.

I am the one who’s going to die.

Solas takes another step forward through the snow.

My eyes snap back to him and I tense again, like a deer caught in headlights; like prey caught within the predator’s gaze.

The predator hidden behind garments of lamb.

I need to run and get away. Survive.

But I cannot move.

And then Solas lowers down and offers an outstretched hand. But he doesn’t lay a hand to my skin or tattered clothes, or even draw closer than the foot away he kneels. Instead, he simply waits.

Behind him, Khammana leans against the edges of a stone wall with the shadows of a mabari statue flooding overhead. But she tears her gaze away from us.

Instead, it’s only Solas who catches my eyes. And his lips tug upward before he offers a smile. “Da’len?” His voice is smooth, calm, and almost drags my hand forward.

But I keep my hand clenched against my side, though Solas doesn’t falter even once.

He opens his mouth to speak once more. “Da’le-”

But my lips pull up into a scowl and I hiss. “I’m not a child. My  _name_  is  _Rhaena_ ,” I snap.

“Rhaena.” The edge of Solas’s smile twitches once, and my name falls from his lips like a song’s lyric. “I am Solas. The woman behind me is Khammana, the Herald of Andraste.”

So she’s already grabbed that title, though not quite accurate. It’d be true if she’d been called the Herald of  _Fen’Harel_ , the ancient elven god who bends and offers his hand to me.

“You’re the one who gave me water,” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you needed it.”

“That’s not what I mean. Why didn’t you just let me die?”

His fingers twitch. “Do you wish for death?” He asks instead.

But my breath hitches in my throat as I stare into his cool, calculating eyes. It would be so easy to say  _yes_ , so easy to let them put me to the edge of a sword right now. Let me drift into some peace and let the last remnants of my world drift away with me. But instead, “… No,” falls from my lips.

“And that is why,” Solas answers. “We’re here to help.”

“But how can I trust you? That man from before put a blade to my throat because I was protecting myself. How can I be sure you won’t do the same?”

“I cannot reassure you of that, and I apologize,” Solas coaxes. “But let your faith guide you into believing the Herald of Andraste means you no harm.”

“I’m not Andrastian,” I convey quickly.

And that catches the both of them off-guard. But… maybe not Solas; instead, the edges of his lips twitch. “Do you believe in the elven Pantheon then?” he asks.

“I know of them, but no.” I glance away, try to shuffle back. My legs and toes are numb from the bundled snow.

 _Careful Rhaena_ , my own voice pricks in the back of my head.  _Careful about how much information you give_.

Solas hums, but he doesn’t withdraw his extended hand.

 _But be careful of which offer of help you resend_ , the voice echoes again.  _You’ve already proved to yourself you wish to stay alive. So prove it; survive_.

I slowly raise a shaky hand, soft flakes of snow melting against trembling fingers, and slip my palm against Solas’s.

The snowflakes against my hand melt away at the heat courses through his palm and fingers. Something  _new_  pricks at my skin; almost like an unsure, hovering touch. It dances right above the wavering magic along my shoulder before it suddenly dives away and all I can feel is the warmth radiating from Solas’s touch.

And then he smiles. He pulls me from the snow until I’m standing, albeit on shaky legs.

“Herald?” Solas looks to the tall Qunari from the corner of his eye, and Khammana pushes herself from the stone wall. Without a word, she weaves around, barely leaving a print in the snow, and presses open the door to the cabin at my back.

“Rhaena,” Solas speaks and my eyes snap back to his. A warming grin is painted across his face. “Let’s get you some food and back into bed.”

And I don’t argue.

Not this time.


	6. Rhaena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a happy New Year everyone!

Clutching an arm close to my injured side, I settle against the edge of my cot. Khammana quietly steps over the opposite side of the cabin, slipping into a seat and fitting a quill in her hand and scratches the tip of it across pieces of parchment. I hadn’t even noticed the other bed pressed against the corner by Khammana’s rounded table.

Am I sharing her quarters?

A warm, wooden bowl is pressed into my free hand, and the slight brush of a gloved finger sends a shock up my arm.

“Ir abelas,” Solas speaks, and a weight presses down by my side as the cot groans beneath the both of us. One of Solas’s fingers taps against the brim of the bowl. “You should eat.”

I’m amazed it’s still warm under my touch, but I watch as he traces the length of his finger along the bowl, a spark of magic flowing like a ribbon as he does.

I raise my left arm, fiddling for the spoon in the broth, but the pain in my ribs sing. I recoil back, pressing my arm against my side. Instead, I balance the bowl against my legs and pick up the offered spoon with my right.

“You’re favoring your left side.” Solas, in the warming light of the cabin, softly tilts his head. “How much pain are you in?”

I measure a full spoonful of broth against my lips, the scent of the spiced meat flipping my stomach. “It hurts to breath but… it’s bearable.”

His eyes sweep over me as I let a bite of stew settle over my tongue. It’s warm, and the flavors dance as I swallow. The tender meat is easy to swallow, along with the roasted vegetables. I can’t place the taste of the meat, but it’s almost reminiscent of venison. When I breathe deeply once more, my ribs ache.

“If you’d allow me,” Solas says, “I might be able to ease some of that pain. I know a few spells.”

“I am fine, truly.” I swallow and sip at the thick broth. In truth, if the only physical injuries I now have are my bruised ribs and the scab from the sword’s edge, then that’s nothing compared to the invisible scars that still bleed through my spirit and soul.

“Ah.” Solas clicks his tongue, but there’s the softest trickle of magic that smooths against my skin. But it’s cool, an icy prick that plucks and pulls. “But you’re  _not_  fine, are you? You are  _broken_.” His voice hisses in my ear, nipping at the bloody, shattered tendrils woven in my mind.

The spoon stills at my lips as I turn to him. His suave, stoic expression twists away into a wry curl of a scowl, and his grayed eyes are icy. The edge of a canine glints from the light of the fire before Solas tilts his head, the shadows catching the sharp lines of his jaw and the razor points to his brows and ears.

“W-what-?” I choke out.

The scratching of Khammana’s quill has silenced; indeed, there is nothing  _but_  a cold stillness, except for the fervor of my racing heartbeat and the dangerous chuckle that drips from Solas’s lips like venom from a snake’s fang.

“It flows off you in  _waves_ , da’len.” His teeth snap together as he presses forward, his face barely more than a few inches from mine. “It’s obvious. So much horror, so much pain, so much  _fear_.” His eyes dart away from my face to my lips. “You’ve got a little stain  _here_.”

Solas leans closer and darts his tongue across my bottom lip before I can recoil away. And he  _laughs_. Magic snaps off him in heavy blasts; it chills my bones, but buzzes off my skin like the flare of blistering nuclear heat.

I tremble, my teeth chatter and my eyes dart back to his face. A drop of blood passes from the tip of his tongue across his lips before he draws a finger up to wipe them clean. But the moment he catches my eyes, he pauses, and a wicked smirk curls wide across the sharp lines of his face.

Blood? But I’m not bleeding. I’m not…

My gaze trails down to the spoon pressed close to my lips. Trickles of thick, hot  _blood_  drip from chunks of meat. It drops from my hands and clanks against the stew’s brim, but that too sloshes with steaming blood, soft licks of smoke billowing up around it.

A single, glazy eye rolls through the thick blood and cindered meat.

A strangled cry claws past my lips and the wooden bowl clatters to the stone ground, spilling across the floor as it sizzles and bubbles.

Solas’s dark, horrid laugh echoes through the cabin.

Stains of putrid reds and nauseating oranges dot my vision and I turn my head up. At Khammana’s desk, the parchments have burned to cinders, but in the spot of the horned Qunari hunches over a flame-eaten skeleton. Bony fingers turn upward, alive with flame and stained to the marrow with dark soot. Eyeless sockets drip with darkened blood, and molten metal dribbles from horny juts of bone.

“ _No_ ,” I whimper.

“You did this.” Solas leans forward to hiss in my ear, and the chill of his magic plucks at my skin while bile stings my throat.

The wooden construct of the cabin’s ceiling breaks away to a sky clogged with smoke and whitened ash. In the distance, against the charred visage of mountains, climb spiraling towers of metal skeletons. Like the paper castles in New York. In its center, the mushroom-shaped black cloud of nuclear fire.

“ _This_  is your legacy.” Solas breathes hot against the edges of my ear as I bite on a sob. “But” – Solas leans closer, caressing the edges of gloved fingers along my trembling shoulders – “there is a way to prevent the calamities you’ve been cursed to see.”

I tilt my head and catch his eyes.

A dreadful smirk rests upon his features, his words dripping like acid and chilling my blood to ice. “ _Let me in_.”

I recoil away, scrambling across the cot. “ _Demon_.”

“Smart girl.” Solas’s smirk turns wider.

Has this  _all_  been a dream? Am I trapped here in this blistering hell of not knowing a dream from reality?

“Yes,” the demon in Solas’s skin sneers.

Above, the blistering clouds of black twist and move, carried on the wind by an invisible rush of magic. A roar shakes the earth beneath the stone and from the smoky plumes, a great maw forms. Teeth of burning coals and petrified soot snap and curl, and  _six_  blistering, bloody eyes blink toward where I curl against fur and cloth.

The ghoulish twist of the Dread Wolf presses smoky claws into the lines of the mountains as it blocks the bloody sun from the sky.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tears slip free.

 _Wake up_.  _Wake up._

“That won’t do you much good, now will it?” The demon tuts.

“I will  _not_  give myself over to you,” I snap back, and the demon’s smirk curls wider.

“Yes you will,” it purrs. “Maybe not today, but  _I_ am patient. Your fear will keep me well-fed, and when you’re ripe – ready for the taking – you  _will_  let me in. You can’t deny it.” The demon’s fingers snap forward and wrap around my chin, jerking me to face them. Its wicked smile glimmers darkly in the firelight, and the air clogs – harder and harder to breathe – as the smoky nightmare of the Dread Wolf draws closer.

“You’ll let me in, and your knowledge will benefit us both. I’ll dress you in fineries, twist your limbs like figments on strings, and let you  _cry_  as I dance for you.” The roll of its laughter curdles my blood. “But maybe, if you’re a good girl, I’ll feed your wolf man to Hybris and press the hum of pleasure into you until you  _beg_. Would you like that?”

“No.” I hiss between clenched teeth.

The demon perks a brow. “No?”

_Wake up. Wake up!_

The demon laughs, and above us, the smoky tendrils of teeth snap down as my eyes bleed red.

* * *

 

I startle awake with a gasping whine, the agony of my rips twisting like the cut of serrated blades. The red stains behind my eyes fade into a room cloaked with cool grays and blues.

Letting my head loll against a pillow of feathers, I glance across the cabin and see the shadows of horns reflected against the farthest wall by the hints of embers. Khammana is curled – though still  _giant_  – in her own bed.

The fire has dulled, but there’s the occasional crackle of flame-licked logs.

What had been real and what a dream?

Through the darkness, there are folded clothes politely stacked on the rounded table next to my cot. And as quickly as I’m able, I swing my feet out from the tangle of cloth and furs and press bare feet to the intact stone floor.

My hand finds the clothing, and I slip off the clinging tatters of a charred jacket and undershirt only to replace it with a simple tunic of woven furs and cloth. I steady myself on trembling legs, but slide out of half flame-eaten jeans for pants with buckles and scales. And beside all that, are odd cuts of cotton I’m able to slip over my feet, and then a pair of worn boots that I pull tight.

A jacket hangs in one of the cabin’s corners, and I stagger over to pull it free.

Khammana hasn’t moved even once.

With a ragged breath, I pull the jacket tight around my body and softly press myself to the door. There’s no blockage, no latch, or lock; instead, the door eases open without much fuss and the nip of winter air is a welcome relief.

Khammana’s bed suddenly groans behind me, and I startle; I hurry out into the night and close the door behind me. My ribs twinge painfully with every breath, but I intake a long hiss between clenched teeth before I turn to the silent night that grips all of Haven.

 _Two_  half-moons hang in the sky and green-gray clouds flick to and fro, but the light of the moons catches silver against the snow.

I bundle closer in my new clothing and step through the icy night. There are very few soldiers stationed here and there, but it’s easy enough to squeeze through the ajar door at Haven’s entrance. A few horses snort and rummage in the stables to my left, and the snores of soldiers come from my right.

A wave of doubt presses in the back of my mind, but I shake that away as I steadily hike up the snow. A sword lays discarded outside the mess of a tent, and my fingers brush the hilt. A scowl twists across my face as I strain the muscles in my right arm to level the weapon at my side.

I need to protect myself; I need to carry this, no matter how much heavier it swings. But I traverse up the hill until the snoring of soldiers is drowned out by the song of the whispering trees, and the scuffle of little animals through the snow.

A cabin lies past it all; a familiar location, but there are cobwebs and a chill veined through the wooden beams overhead. The cold is trapped between the stone and wood, and I collapse to my knees in front of a drowned fireplace.

And the sobs crack through a shaky façade and I scream out in anguish. Fierce cries wrack through and send every nerve of my body crashing down, trembling, until the burn of bile settles in the back of my throat.

“Oh M-Maker – or  _God_ , or if you even  _exist_ ” – I breathe through choking sobs – “What a  _cruel, cruel_ fate you’ve given me. What a  _cruel_  curse you’ve given me.” To know, to anticipate, to be plagued by nightmares, demons, and the Dread Wolf breathing down my neck. “Why didn’t you let me die? Why break my mind like you’ve done? Why bring me  _here_?”

Right under the nose of the Inquisition, as a nobody – someone who carries no mark, no status of power, nothing – such a cruel working of fate.

“Rhaena.”

The voice causes a gasping sob to catch in my throat, and my fingers curl against the cold stone beneath me. I whip my head around and find the dreaded wolf standing in the doorway, and his stoic expression strains with concern when his eyes widen.

I probably look a mess; eyes swollen and bloodshot. I think there are burn scars against my face, but as I raise my fingers to my skin it’s smoothed with barely the faintest of blemishes.

“Solas.” I try to clear my throat and I wipe away gathered tears. “You… you told me your name right? I didn’t dream that?”

“You didn’t dream that,” he confirms. “Have you been plagued by troubling dreams?”

“More than troubling,” I confess.

He looks between me and the sword clenched tight between my fingers. “Is it… may I approach?” he asks.

I glance to the sword and lower it to the cold stone. It’s for the best if I do; I fear the weapon could slip. But I push it away bit by bit. “Y-yes,” I say.

A flutter of magic brushes tentatively across my skin as Solas comes to kneel by my side.

“I’m broken,” I confess. “I may not look it, but my mind, my emotions,  _everything_  inside me feels withered and destroyed.”

“Why think something like that, Rhaena?” Solas smoothly asks.

“Because-” Because what? Because I saw my world consumed by nuclear fire?

I lost the only connection I had with my world, with my family, and now I bear the curse of  _knowing too much_  in a world I shouldn’t belong in.

“-I don’t belong here.”

“Then where do you belong?” Solas asks.

“Nowhere.”

I can feel him hesitate; his magic swims around, trying to soothe the violent waves of mine – even if I can’t control it.

“Your home?” Solas asks.

“Destroyed.”

“Your family?”

“Gone.”

A silence grips him, but a moment later his touch presses into my shoulder. His magic twirls closer and I can feel the pulses of it trying to tame and calm the violence of my own.

Red battles green.

Green tames red.

“I am sorry, Rhaena,” he whispers softly. “If there’s anything you require here, don’t hesitate to ask the Herald or me. We will make sure you are comfortable.”

“You don’t need to do that,” I sniffle.

“On the contrary. It’s something I wish to do for you.” What a sly, sly wolf.

“I… I don’t know what I want,” I tell him.

He tilts his head softly. “You need not make up your mind now.” A pause. “You said you couldn’t tell the difference between reality and dream. Have nightmares plagued you?”

“Yes,” I confess.

“Then peaceful dreams will find you instead, that I can promise you.” He says. What is he planning?

“And how can you promise that?” I ask.

I see the hint of a canine’s glow as his lips twist upward a little more. “I am a dreamer, da’len, and an expert of the Fade. If you wish for peaceful dreams, I do not want to deny you such.”

“But why help me?” I ask.

“Why would I not? You are in need of them. And I am a friend.”

“You barely know me, and all the others consider me a blood mage or abomination. Why are you any different?”

Solas’s magical tethers calm the pulse of red at my skin and the wisps disappear beneath.  “I know different,” he says. “And, if you’ll have me, I’ll be a friend who’ll understand.”

I shouldn’t trust this dreaded wolf. He’s real; tangible. I can so clearly feel his touch on my shoulder and his breath as his chest rises and falls. Even the gray in his eyes are ringed with the softest flecks of blues and greens.

I am aware of his plans, but yet…

Yet… the smoothness of his words and elegance of his canter has shown he isn’t the monster I yet see. He’s hidden behind the markings of a lamb, the stitching of a man, and the warmth of compassion.

He’s here for me when no others are.

And that is somehow comforting.

Even when I know the events to come.

“A-alright,” I say and clear my throat until I can take a welcome breath.

I take his offered hand and, together, we leave the cabin and the abandoned sword behind. The night snow numbs my feet, but we continue on in silence, Solas’s magic plucking gently at my skin and his palm gentle against the middle of my back.

But above, the moons hover against the horizon, sinking below the mountains in the distance. Yet silver light still streams down and catches against the ice frozen over the surrounding river like the visage of some forgotten ghost.

“Rhaena?” Solas presses close, breath warm against my ear.

My heart aches, wrapped tight in some constricting vice. I cannot move, even as a breath of wind cuts icily across my cheek.

“Rhaena?”

“I… I need a moment, Solas. Please.”

His palm slips from my lower back and the warmth of his magic sinks away as he takes a step back. And I step forward, icy wood creaking under each step of my frigid boots. The light refracts against spots of snow and smoothed ice, dancing like stars in the wind. Blue and white – nothing like the red ribbons of magic swimming beneath my skin.

Sinking to my knees, I swing my legs over the edge of the river’s dock, dangling my feet over the piles of snow below. And I turn my hands out toward the opened sky as snowflakes melt against my palms. And with each twinkle of white comes a spark of red from my skin.

Like the red of nuclear fire. Like the blistering heat of it all hides deep inside me, in the very marrow of my bones. I let it pool from my arms up through my veins until it settles in my palms, flickering the sharpest of crimsons. Like electricity and flame both, crackling across my fingers, a nauseating heat in contrast to the comforts of a winter night.

But like a moth to flame, the electricity of my magic weaves up, ribbons of it dancing along with the snow. Yet, as the red touches the flakes of white, the color of magic shifts. From red, it bleeds away to purple, then blue, and finally white until an aurora of colors weaves in the air around the frozen river.

It dances, cuts through the air and wind until streams of the magic hums, drifting across the ice like skaters across a rink. And as the wisps of purple, blue, and red sink around me into my arms, something tugs at my heart – twisting tight until my heart is gripped tightly in some unfathomable vice.

And it drags from me memories. Of love, joy, happiness.

But sadness, fear, and despair follow too.

From the ribbons of magic, shapes form in the glistening colors of blues, reds, and whites. Blue begins to shimmer with the aura of green, and from it comes the shape of birds that race through the air, a tune of song whistling at the ends of their ethereal tail feathers.

In the scarlet electricity comes figures – humanoid in form and stature – dancing across the ice and song as the hum of magic and rhythm warms the night with hints of music.

But the magic doesn’t sink beneath my skin; instead, it plucks and runs across my cheeks, wiping away budding tears until my cheeks glisten and my arms tremble.

Like some choreographed dance, the aurora of magic – gentle wisps to crackling electricity – race and spin in earnest, birds weaving to and fro overhead and figures of men and women and children skating across the ice with lanterns of light.

A siren of song drifts through, tugging at the despair that still grips deathly tight around my heart. Until the clawing vice comes free and relief pulls the air from my lungs. And then – _only_ then – do the figures fade back into the wisps of magic they once were, weaving and braiding through the air and last bits of song until they sink back beneath my skin.

I’m alive. I’m here. On the back of annihilation and death, yes, but still here.

A prodding aura of magic brushes along my back; familiar, warm – comforting. So, I pull myself from the chill of the dock and turn.

But besides Solas, standing tall and blue-gray eyes twinkling with light, others watch from beyond. Inquisition soldiers, templars, servants… even several members of the Inquisition’s close council – Cassandra, Leliana, Cullen. Even Khammana, the shadow of her taller than all.

Come to judge me, have they?

And yet, their eyes are wide and glistening, awe present across their features; even Cullen, as hard-headed he is about mages, has some level of amazement written across that fair skin of his; however, as soon as the amazement is there, it disappears from his face.

Like the ghost of a smile.


	7. Khammana

She must be in pain, the poor girl.

Sataa used to have nightmares, always waking and screaming out in desperation for a cling to reality. I’ve never understood how connected mages are to the Fade, but hearing Sataa’s screams and the stories of possessions, I understand and sometimes pity their plight.

But this girl, this  _Rhaena_ , is the only other survivor of the Temple. Though she bares no mark, she may still have memories; she may  _know_  what happened, what she saw in the Fade, who attacked. She could help.

Only when she is ready.

The constructs of the mattress beneath me groan as I pull myself to stand. The elegant patterning of the mark travels up around my wrist; it aches and glows dully, and I slip on my gloves and pads.

A sealed letter to Shokrakar sits upon my desk, and I fear what her response will be. Several Inquisition soldiers found… the remnants of two of my kith; Omniar and Addahm. A few others still remain missing, and I doubt good news will be had when we find them.

 _If_  we find them.

With a flicker of an ember, the fireplace slowly stirs into life. The soft glow of flames illuminates the sanded down stones before I press past the door. But the air is _alive_. With song and magic and aura.

Dawn does not crest against the horizon, but instead rhythm – and it draws wandering eyes toward it – past the gates.

“What is _that_?” someone whispers.

“Some form of aurora?” another guesses. “I’ve never seen it before.”

It drags people from houses and tents, past the gates of Haven and from the temporary training grounds, until lights and song dance across the frozen scape of Haven’s small river.

At the end of the dock sits Rhaena, arms resting upon her knees and head high – eyes toward the sky. And from her, trickling from her arms and around her shoulders, the magic – red, blue, green, purple, white – draws free like some ethereal song, an orchestra playing to us this winter night.

And the beauty of the dancing figures, the ghosts of birds upon the air, the eerie song of desire and despair sinks beneath the snow and radiates warmth upward from the bottoms of my boots. It thrums through my legs, through the air in my lungs, the rising beat of my heart, even to the ends of my horns until all I can feel is this overwhelming sense of peace. But there’s a despair that sinks around my ribs, draws tears to my eyes, and a twitch through my fingers.

Sataa could never do this.

Whatever _this_ is sinks back into Rhaena’s arms and the peaceful warmth fades away until the chill of the night settles in again and snowflakes land at the curl of horns.

Around me stand many others – Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen – and, at the edge of the dock, Solas. All with the same shock written across their faces like my own.

What _is_ this girl? An abomination, no. A blood mage, no. But something, _someone_ , else.

And inside her, a power – and a light – we’ve never seen before. Maybe even strong enough to rival the calamity in the skies over our heads.

* * *

 

As morning dawns, I catch Commander Cullen stationed beyond the now opened gates, instructing the waking soldiers to eat their fill of breakfast before morning exercises. But the moment I grab his attention, he straightens and turns. “Herald,” he speaks.

As he does, many of the soldiers quickly glance up from their bowls of porridge. Some even jump up to salute. One particularly excited soldier knocks over a few bowls and scatters the porridge in the budding fire. Several of them look away with disbelief and embarrassment. The excited soldier’s cheeks darken before they rush to retrieve more food for their fellows.

“Commander,” I greet Cullen. “Did you sleep well? Any news?”

“Thank you Herald, I did.” He nods and shuffles lightly in the snow, already clad in armor from shoulder to toe. “As for news, nothing important. The only thing of notice was Solas and the apostate girl by the river this morning. I would’ve been fine sending a few soldiers to bring her back if you inquired-”

“I do not think that would’ve worked out well, Commander,” I interrupt gently and see him suddenly stiffen. “Did you see her magic? It was… beautiful, to say in the least. And I do not think we would’ve seen that if we had templars escort her back. She needed to be alone, she needed to be with someone like herself so she could relax.”

“As beautiful as her magic may be, she’s a dangerous apostate,” he counters.

“She’s a  _frightened girl_ , Commander. A mage who fell out of the Fade, survived the explosion that destroyed the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and is now surrounded by ex-templars and refugees frightened of mages. Tell me how all that equals into a dangerous apostate.”

Cullen doesn’t. Instead, he shuffles from one armored foot to the other.

I let the tension bleed from my shoulders. “Speaking of the templar, any word on their condition?”

“I just spoke with our alchemists and healers. Adan has gotten them out of their armor and seen to them, but he says they’re not quite out of the clear yet until they wake up,” Cullen explains. “However, a preliminary check over their injuries revealed them not to be as bad as believed. Their back is most definitely bruised, but Adan and the other healers believe no bones have been broken.”

“That’s a relief then.”

“ _If_  they wake up.”

“Even so, we should inform the others of this so we can clean this mess up.”

“Clean it up?”

“Yes. Give the girl some ease. Let her find some comfort in knowing she did not fatally harm that ex-templar.”

“Why would we do that?” he asks. “She attacked them. There should be-”

“Cullen,” I bite out. “Her magic over the lake – I don’t know many other mages, but what she could command and manipulate through the air was beautiful.” And sad, even with the hum of music thrumming through our bones. “Do you know that in the Qun there are reeducation centers? My parents told me stories of them, and I’ve met a few Vashoth who’ve escaped. Qunari who do not reform in the Qun are  _broken_ , their minds shattered.

“Think of what this young mage, Rhaena, has been through. She is a survivor of the Breach, like I. She could remember events in the Fade that I do not. She carries a weight on her shoulders and is plagued by nightmares. She barely eats. She needs a chance to heal, and while the Inquisition is attempting to bring peace and order back to Thedas, we open our lands to refugees who need a fresh start. Rhaena is one who needs it, or will you attempt to deny her that simply because she is a mage?”

All the color drains from Cullen’s face.

I loved a mage once; I understand how difficult it is for them. I recognize the dangers they face that others do not.

“Very well,” Cullen says. “I will consider your words. When we met with the advisors later today, I will attempt to speak with a clear mind.”

“Thank you, Commander. That’s all I ask.”

* * *

 

“We’ve received word from King Alistair and several of Arl Teagan’s soldiers stationed in the Hinterlands,” Leliana says, lowering a piece of parchment to the edge of the war table. She cites a carved raven against the borders of the Hinterlands on Fereldan’s map. “Many of the mages have been offered sanctuary in Redcliffe, and a cleric by the name of Mother Giselle wishes to speak with the Herald.”

“And is she in Redcliffe?” I ask as my eyes sweep over the map. Several locations have been marked by statuettes; Redcliffe and the Hinterlands for one, but then there’s a raven against the marker for Denerim and another on Orlais’s border for Val Royeaux.

“Close to,” Leliana explains. “There’s an area called the Crossroads near the borders of Redcliffe. A few of my connections have stated that they’ve seen her there, but the political unrest between the templars and the mages have caused a stir and now it’s almost near impossible to situate our men around the area.”

“We feel it may be best if you, the Herald, went to see to her and helped to expand on the Inquisition’s influence,” Commander Cullen adds in.

“We need agents to extend our reach beyond this valley, and you’re better suited than anyone to recruit them,” Josephine chimes. The lights of the chandeliers make her skin glow and eyes sparkle with faint hints of warmed bronze.

“Because I have the Mark,” I say.

“Indeed. And you  _are_  the Herald of Andraste. People are going to start looking to you to carry on Her word.”

I fight a grimace attempting to form across my features; the problem with that statement is… I am Vashoth. I am not Andrastian. Maybe a Maker exists, but I am not a mover of the faith; I was selected as a neutral party to carry order and peace, but now I’m seen as a figure standing tall for the faithful to garner hope from. This mark truly may  _not_  be a gift from Andraste or the Maker. Had it been, maybe the pain wouldn’t be crippling.

“In the meantime, let’s think of other options,” Cassandra speaks up. “I won’t leave this all to the Herald.”

The advisors are quick with their agreements, but I straighten and clasp my hands together in front of me. “Now,” I clear my throat. “Let’s speak of our other survivor, Rhaena.”

Commander Cullen visible tenses at my side, I spot the faintest twitch to Leliana’s lips, and Cassandra grunts.

“There’s not much known about her, Your Worship,” Josephine speaks up. “She’s a mystery, just as you are, but we’ve made contact with your mercenary commander already. We know why you were at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, but this girl – Rhaena, as you say – there’s little on her.”

“I sent a discreet letter to Arl Teagan and he told the Grand Enchanter that a mage by the name of Rhaena survived the Breach,” Leliana says. “But the Grand Enchanter does not recognize such a name amongst her people.”

“Could she be a wandering one, then? A Dalish?”

“She bears none of the markings I’ve seen many Dalish do,” Josephine says. “And we could not identify the craftsmanship of her attire. It was too badly cindered.”

“Let us send her to Redcliffe with the rest of the mages, let them take responsibility for her,” Cassandra bluntly says.

But I shake my head. “She is the only other survivor of the Breach. I do not think it’d be wise to send her away without knowing how she or I survived.”

“What are you suggesting, Herald?” Leliana’s sharp eyes watch me attentively. “That we do nothing?”

“No.” I shake my head. “That we  _help_  her. Think of her as a refugee. She needs sanctuary, and we are able to provide it.”

A silence grips the room, except for a slight clank from Cassandra’s armor. “What does Solas think?” she asks.

“I will not speak for him,” I explain. “But if we wish to hear what he says, I’ve asked him to wait outside. He may have some insight that may be useful for our final decision concerning Rhaena.”

“Master Solas is outside?” Josephine blinks.

I nod. “Indeed.”

Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra share a quick glance between each other before the Commander’s shoulders droop with a clank of his heavy armor. “Very well, invite him in.”

Quick on my heel to turn, I twist open the door. Solas awaits in the light of an overhead chandelier, his posture straightened and hands pressed at his back.

Soft shadows dance off his face as he catches my eye. “Herald?” His word is soft, questioning, but I gesture toward the war room with a quick nod.

He’s brisk and pads silently past me until he halts at the edge of the war table. Coming to his side a moment later, I let the door latch behind us.

“So, Master Solas,” Josephine clears her throat. “We would appreciate your thoughts on our mystery woman.”

“Has she confided anything in you?” Leliana asks.

“If she’s a danger to herself or others, we must know now,” Commander Cullen adds.

He’s stoic; instead, he raises his chin, and gray eyes specked with blues and greens focus on the writ of the Great Divine resting at the corner of the war table.

“She is a mystery,” he begins. “Just like the Herald, she survived the explosion. I thought her injuries might pass her to the Maker’s side, but she has surprisingly fought to allow us time to heal her more serious ailments.”

“Yes, but is she a danger?” Commander Cullen asks. “We do not know her origins or why she was at the Conclave.”

“Does she have any family, anyone that we can contact?” Josephine pipes in.

“She has no one,” Solas says, and the advisors stand in their silence. “I did not wish to invade her thoughts or privacy further, but all I know is that she lost her home and family. She is alone.”

“Oh Maker,” Josephine breathes.

“Then what course of action do you suggest we do, Solas?” Cassandra asks. “We cannot simply do nothing.”

“I agree.” Solas looks to her. “However, I feel that casting her out would be a drastic decision, and a disappointing one. She needs to heal and learn. What better place than here with the Inquisition. We can offer her our aid, she can grow to trust us, and we may yet find out why she was at the Conclave.”

“But if she was responsible for the explosion?” Leliana perks a brow.

“If she is a suspect to the Divine’s death and the destruction that leveled the Temple, then better to have her close to keep watchful eyes trained on her,” Solas cleverly says.

That soothes Leliana while a faint smirk tugs at her frown instead.

“It may just work,” Commander Cullen says. “But if she cannot control her magic-”

“Allow me to be the one who mentors her then.” There’s a spark in Solas’s eyes as he speaks.

“You?”

“It’ll help for me to get a gauge on her magical capabilities,” Solas explains. “I will write reports on her training and what she knows that may yet reveal importance.”

“If I may ask, how would you begin her training?” Leliana asks.

But I’m the one who speaks up. “By taking her along to the Hinterlands.”

Cassandra scowls and turns to face me. “Herald, is that such a good idea? Taking an apostate we don’t know much about into potentially hostile lands?” she asks.

“Well Cassandra, I was hoping for you and Varric to accompany us as well.”

“Me?” She blinks.

“Yes. I know your relationship with Varric seems a bit… chaotic, but having two mages and a rogue escorting the  _Herald of Andraste_  may not be the best idea, especially now in the Inquisition’s earliest stages,” I explain. “With the war going on between mages and templars, I do not want there to be trouble for Solas if we stumble upon some rogue templars. While I hate to admit it, being an elf and a mage is… not the safest thing right now. And while I don’t mind having a witty-mouthed storytelling dwarf with me, I feel the safest if you would join us.”

“She is correct, Seeker,” Solas adds in.

I continue. “And, with you being there, you’ll be able to keep an eye on Rhaena as well. It may be beneficial to all of us.”

“That is...” – Leliana begins – “actually not a bad idea.”

“I agree.” Josephine gives one of her brilliant smiles. Just the shape of it brings a splash of dark heat to her cheeks and a glimmer to her eyes.

Commander Cullen steadies himself and looks to the map, but he too does not seem opposed to the idea.

“Very well,” Cassandra clears her throat. “We shall prepare to leave in a few days’ time. Let us make sure we are all ready.”


	8. Rhaena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being awesome, guys! Here, have a chapter early! ;)

The scent of bitter root and ember-eaten wood drags me back into reality, but I’m oddly too comfortable; curled tight between cocooned blankets and furs. My cheek is gently pressed against a feathered pillow that smells of rain, and the flicker of a brimming fireplace pulls a groan from my lips.

One of my arms is still numb beneath me, but I use my free one to wipe the sleep from my eyes, despite the painful twinge that spikes through my ribs.

It takes me too long to realize I’m alone in the cabin, except for the warming fireplace between my cot and Khammana’s bed in the opposite corner. But the Qunari is absent, and the sounds of brisk steps and chatting voices are muffled past the lines of open window panels.

Nestled on top of my rounded night stand is a small vial and inside, a liquid faded pink glimmers with soft wisps of light. Beside it rests a note. But as my fingers brush against the parchment and pull it to my pillow, my lips twist down into a frown.

The odd scratches across the parchment are lyrical and fluid, but… each symbol, or  _letter_ , is foreign; I can’t make heads or tails of it, or the odd mix of runic, Latin, or  _dwarven_  symbols.

I blink one too many times and slip the parchment back to the table, with the letters pressed to the sanded wood. Everything spins in front of my eyes and I raise a hand to press to my temple. If the symbols on the parchment are the common written dialect, I am  _screwed_. It’s not English; not an accumulation of any other languages I know bits and pieces of from my world. It’s different. I know how to read and write, but here… I  _don’t_  know how to read or write.

I tuck my arm against my side again and pull myself from the cot, slipping on discarded shoes and shuffling on the jacket hanging at my bedside. My eyes are still rubbed red and raw, but I can’t remain in here. I can’t sleep in the cot pressed to the shadowed corner or pity myself in a warmed cabin when a massive Qunari rogue may return at any moment.

I must carry on. Carrying on without my family, without my purpose, is a death sentence but just the thought of my mother and my father sends my mind spiraling.

They wouldn’t wish death on me. They wouldn’t want me to die from grief and sorrow, as the last, unmarked survivor of a devastated world; they’d want me to carry on, push on,  _survive_.

I can just imagine my mother’s aged face, and her features crinkle with a smile.  _‘You’ve been given another chance,’ I imagine she would say. ‘You’re too young to come with us, to join at our side. There’s so much more for you, you just need to seek it.’_

But what of Blake? He was younger than me. If I’m too young to join my parents, then he didn’t deserve to either.

My shoulders slump as I press my hand against the lock of the door. My fingers tremble but tighten around the handle before it clinks and I pull it open. I’m not expecting to suddenly greet the sight of speckled blue-gray eyes staring down at me in surprise, and I startle back a step.

“Rhaena,” my name leaves Solas’s mouth like a poem’s lyric. He lowers his hands to clasp them behind his back, a gentle smile turning up his features, and there’s a faint glimmer of green through his calculating stare. “I did not mean to alarm you.”

“Solas,” I breathe. “Are you looking for Khammana?”

He blinks but swift to shake his head. “No, I came to see you,” he says.

Me?

His sharp eyes meet mine again. “I hoped maybe you’d be awake,” he says. “I wished to see if you might be interested in joining me in the tavern for an afternoon meal. We’d be joining a friend I believe you should meet.”

“Who? And why?”

“His name is Varric Tethras.” Solas smiles. “And I feel it might help you to know more than just two people here. Varric is… exceptionally lively and a good listener if I’m not around.”

“Did you just offer yourself up for me to rant to?”

“Did I?” He feigns a curious curl of his brow, and the growing smirk upon his face is undeniable. “Ah, I suppose I did.”

I scoff gently and my lips twist up.

“It’s lovely to see you smile,” Solas comments.

My eyes snap wide before my grin fades from my face.

And Solas sighs deeply. “I apologize,” he begins. “It brings me shame to think I’ve upset or embarrassed you in any way with my comment. I will refrain from doing so, if that is what you’d like.”

I wave my right hand in dismissal. “It’s not that, Solas. Smiling is… I like to smile but, right now, there’s not much to smile  _for_.”

“Ah, well. I hope, with time, you’ll find more to smile for.”

I open my mouth to speak but, when words escape me, I snap shut. His care is surprising, but yet it shouldn’t amaze me to think he’d do this. He’s calculating; he’s a master of manipulation and deceit; he wants to revive the time of his people long lost at the overwhelming death price of a world’s population. I shouldn’t be surprised by what he’s willing to do to accomplish his goals and who he’d use as his pawns to get his way.

He thinks he’s doing what’s right – but the truth is, most villains think what they’re doing is right. They do not know the definition of right and wrong; they cannot see the difference between evolution’s change and devastating annihilation.

It makes perfect sense that he’d try and use me for his own gains.

I know enough that I remember that he sacrificed his own  _friend_  for refusing to give eluvian passwords,  _and_  for political gain it might get him with Briala in Orlais.

But he does not know that I am aware of him, his intentions, and his clear manipulation of me and the members of the Inquisition. If I am going to live, maybe I can use that. Maybe I can find a way to twist his plans, or halt them entirely.

Just as long as the little red riding hood doesn’t fall for the big bad wolf.

That will…

… Not end well.

“I have no coin to offer up for food, Solas,” I finally say.

“Please, it is my treat.” He smiles. “Have you eaten anything since last night?”

“Not since the stew.”

“Then let’s get you something to eat, shall we?” He steps aside almost expectantly, his speckled eyes of gray and blue watching me with an intelligence and wit I’ve known no others could rival.

Maybe it’s best if I don’t refuse.

“Alright, sure.” The corner of my lips twitch upward as I slip the door shut behind me. “I should definitely get out and about. I can’t stay cooped in my bed.”

Solas tilts his chin upwards and I spot the clever glimmer in his eyes and the curl of his smile. He must find me a curiosity; likely where all this attention is coming from.

He walks at my side, content to keep a few inches between our shoulders, but whenever some passerby looks our way, I notice he catches their stare. I can sense the cold wave of a chill pressing along my skin, but I can’t tell whether it’s protective or curious. But all others look away. Even several elven servants steer away from us.

An uncomfortable prick sends my hairs on end and I shuffle from foot to foot. “Solas, did I hurt that templar?” I ask.

He halts right before the first set of icy steps and I wince at the sight of his wrapped feet in the snow. How are his feet not cold?

Solas turns to me with his jaw clenched.

A rock drops heavily in my stomach and I swallow dryly.

Shit, I killed them.  _I killed them._

_I’m a murderer._

_I’m a monster._

_I’m-_

“They’ll make a full recovery.”

Wait.

When I look up and find him smiling, the dusk light casts his eyes with shades of gold and green. “You only bruised them,” he continues.

“But” – my mouth’s too dry; I can barely get the words out – “I slammed them into a house. I knocked them out.”

Solas reaches over and presses his hand into my shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles in the stitching. “You were protecting yourself,” he soothingly says. “No one blames you for what you did.”

“Yes, they do. They look at me like I’m an abomination in someone’s skin. They’re afraid of me.”

“They’re afraid of what they don’t understand,” Solas expresses, and I suddenly feel a curl of my sooty white hair shifted behind one of my ears. When I glance up, Solas briskly withdraws his hand away and clears his throat. “It will take them time. Do you know what Cassandra wished to do when  _I_  first arrived?”

“No?”

“She suspected duplicity, and threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results with the mark upon the Herald.” He smiles like it’s a bad joke.  “I wanted to help, but I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me.”

The words ring with familiarity in my head, but my own garbled thoughts overwhelm my recognition. Instead, I blink. “ _Why_?” I ask. “You were only trying to help.”

He rolls his shoulders. “I’m an apostate, a mage not controlled by the Chantry. They were suspicious, and may still be. It didn’t matter that I came to help; what mattered was that I was an unknown element in an event that decimated the hope to find peace between mages, templars and their religion.” He gestures toward the steps with a wave of his hand and bounds up when I follow at his heels. “They are frightened of us because they do not understand, but I believe their fear will dissipate over time.”

Solas is quite the clever man; his words are quick to settle the tension from my shoulders. He knows what he needs to say to allow me time to relax, let my guard down, and trust him. The problem is – I don’t trust him. But I’m desperate enough to slip on my mask and face him in this game of pawns, mages, knights, and kings.

“I think I understand,” I say, and it earns me a wider smile.

His eyes flicker with  _something_  akin to curiosity, and then he gestures with his head toward a large building that radiates with the sweet scent of cooked meat. “We’re here.”

The door’s ajar and, as we press inside, I’m greeted by the overwhelming scent of ale, food, and warmed bread. There are a few glances cast our way, and a few people shuffle nervously in their seats, but a sudden wave of someone’s hand pulls at my attention.

“Chuckles!” The voice booms in the rumble of an approving laugh, belonging to a man half Solas’s size, with deep red-chestnut hair and a crimson top patterned with iron buckles. At his side, against the legs of the table, leans a large – and overly complex – crossbow. “Over here! I’ve already ordered us some drinks.”

I feel Solas’s magic tentatively brush up against my skin. “That’s Varric,” he says. “He won’t bite.”

But the moment we both approach, Varric’s eyes flash wide. He waves a hand toward me and I startle back when he joyously barks out, “Raindrop!”

“I – w-what?”

The sound of Solas’s laughter is an oddly pleasant sound. “One of Varric’s hobbies is giving everyone nicknames. When I told him of your name, that word was the first thing to come out of his mouth.” Solas explains. “Come, let’s sit.” He gestures to the seats opposite Varric, and I quickly shuffle into the seat nestled against the corner, bathed in low shadows. Solas seats himself beside me before he folds his hands upon his lap.

Varric is quick to slam a hand upon the table and swiftly turns to face the woman across the bar. “Flissa, another ale for the table please!” he says.

“Oh, I” – I wet my lips – “No, uh, please, no. It’s alright. I’m fine.”

Varric perks a brow and offers me a wry half-smile. “You sure, Raindrop? It’d be our treat.”

“Positive, but thank you.” I nod my head graciously.

Varric rolls his shoulders with a shrug. “You’re not interested in drinking anything else?”

“Uh. Water?”

“Flissa, give us a water instead please!” When Varric finally calms, he turns back to the table and I’m met by the widest of grins. “I finally get to meet the infamous Raindrop. First, you fall from a Fade rift and then throw a templar around like a ragdoll. You’ve quickly made a name for yourself.”

Oh. I slouch down in my chair, hiding in the shadows.

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. Shit. I meant to say, I already like you. Hell, I’ve already sent a letter my friends back in Kirkwall telling them all I knew of the people here. And I couldn’t help but mention you.”

“Your friends,” I begin. “You mean Hawke and others, right?”

Solas quickly turns and catches my eye.

“I, um, I mean. You’re Varric  _Tethras_ , the writer of  _Tale of the Champion_ , right?” I say.

“That’s me.” Varric displays himself like some prideful, puffed up bird. It’s oddly funny. “You a fan?”

I offer him the same wry smile he gave me a few minutes ago. “I’m familiar with some of your works. But most are… I’m sorry to say, not my style.”

“Eh,” the dwarf waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s not for everyone, unfortunately. And that’s fine. But I’m happy I don’t need to introduce myself again. Already did that with Cutlass.”

“Cutlass?” I tilt my head. “Who’s Cutlass?”

Solas leans over. “That’s what he calls Khammana, the Herald.”

“Ah.” I click my tongue, but Flissa – the woman behind the bar – saunters up and places several pints down upon the table. A browned, frothy drink laps at the rims of two pints, but the third is gently placed in front of me. I look up slow enough, but still meet Flissa’s eyes. She offers a warming smile, and I let my lips twist up shyly.

The pint of water is cool, and I reach out my left hand but hiss out in pain as my ribs ache in agony. I gingerly press my arm back to my chest and instead reach with my right.

“Flissa.” My gaze flicks to Solas as he speaks. He twists lightly and, from a small stitching in his tunic, withdraws a handful of shiny bronzed coins. He gracefully drops about a dozen or so into the tavern owner’s hand before he speaks once more, “Would you please fetch us three dinners?”

She gives a brisk nod before heading off, tending to several more patrons.

“So, Raindrop,” Varric says and I look back to him. “Ever play Wicked Grace?”

“No, but I’ve heard of it,” I whisper.

A coy smirk presses wrinkles into the corner of his eyes. “Would you like to learn?” he asks.

“I have nothing to gamble with, and I doubt I’ll be much of an opponent.”

“Nonsense. Chuckles and I will take it easy on you.”

“But then that won’t help me learn.”

The rogue raises a brow high. “Competitive one, aren’t you?”

“Once I learn the ropes, yes, very,” I confess.

Solas chuckles. “Varric, will you deal then?”

A deck of cards is slammed upon the table, and Varric is quick to draw and shuffle. “Will do, Chuckles. You and I will bet, yeah?”

A wolfish smirk crawls across Solas’s face. “As you wish.” But as Varric returns to shuffling the deck, Solas instead glances to me and his smile turns downward. “Rhaena,” he whispers softly and his eyes glance to my lowered arm. “You are still favoring your left side.”

Shit, he doesn’t let a single thing slip his notice, does he?

“Did you not take that potion I left for you on the nightstand?” he asks, and now a flicker of concern dashes across his face.

“I, um” – I fidget lightly in my chair – “didn’t know it was from you.”

“I left a note.”

“I didn’t see a note, I’m sorry. I’ll take it when I get back.”

Solas’s perceptive gaze holds mine for a moment before he turns back to Varric as the rogue begins to set up the deck and deal cards.

“So, um,” I wet my lips and shuffle forward a bit to retrieve my face-down cards. “How does this game work exactly?”

“Wicked Grace is a game of cleverness and deception, and the winning goal is to try and draw a hand of matching cards,” Varric explains. “We draw and discard to achieve our matching hands, upside down or right side up.”

“There are multiple suits,” Solas continues for him as he draws two bronze pieces and lets them settle upon a wooden plate between their pints of ale. “Serpents, Songs, Angels, Knights, Daggers. They are based on positive and negative states, virtues and vices.”

“So, let me see if I understand. A bad hand is one or few matching cards, like one of each suit; a middle hand is one with two matching cards, like two angels and two knights; and a winning hand is a significant number of matching suits, like four of daggers.”

“Correct.”

“When does the game end?” I ask.

“When the Angel of Death appears,” Varric adds on with a smirk.

“I  _think_  I understand.” I draw my hand up. My five cards, the painted faces are easy enough for me to recognize – I’ve two knights, a serpent, a song, and an angel – but at the bottom of each card is an accumulation of those odd runic symbols I’ve found to be of their common writing language. I can’t tell what kind of knights I have, or the names for the others alongside their obvious suit. It’s unnerving and pitiful to know how to read and write, but yet  _not know_  how to read or write.

I straighten and glance to the two men already commenting about bets and who might have the upper hand. I spot that clever, intelligent glimmer in Solas’s eyes as the torchlight catches the speckles of green and casts them into gold. But Varric sneers playfully, his own face slick with shadows, and I – half in darkness and half in light. Quite fitting, I think.

I let the men go first so I can understand rules of drawing, and soon the first of my hand I discard is my angel, face down.

“So, Raindrop, are you from a Circle?” Varric asks.

“Circle?”

“Yeah, you know, like the Fereldan Circle or Kirkwall or Ostwick.”

“Oh, you mean a  _mage_  Circle.”

Varric chuckles. “Yeah, what other circle would there be?”

“Um, I’m not from a Circle,” I say and play my next card – face down, of course.

“So, are you Dalish?”

“Nope.”

“Then how did templars never bring you to a Circle?” Varric asks. “Did you live in a wilderness like Chuckles here?”

“No, I lived in a city,” I say. “I helped my parents and brother.”

“Then how didn’t the templars find you?” Solas asks.

“We didn’t have templars,” I find myself saying without realizing. “And, um, I didn’t have magic before. There were no mages where I lived, so no templars were needed.”

Solas’s eyes narrow.

 _And I’ve said too much_.

“No magic?” Varric’s face wrinkles in confusion. “But you’re a mage.”

I shrug wordlessly.

“Are you telling us you weren’t a mage before you fell from the rift?” Varric presses.

I shrug again and leave it at that.

Flissa is quick to return to our table with food, and settles it all down around our game before turning to fetch more ale for the men. My stomach rolls at the sight of food, and I place my hand of cards down, my fingers brushing over the top, before I lean forward and pick at a piece of roasted meat.

“Raindrop?” A voice stirs me to look up at Varric and Solas, and their eyes are glued on me and my plate of food. I can tell my eyes are glassy from the blur of lights behind their heads.

“Huh?”

“It’s your turn,” Varric says with a perk of his brow.

“Oh. Right, yes.”

And Solas smiles as he looks back to his deck.

Time stretches on, food is picked away, and Varric orders more and more ale. Man, I don’t understand how either can have such a high tolerance; they’ve both already gone through six pints. Varric is only slightly sloshed, but I can’t tell a single change in Solas’s demeanor. Well, maybe his loosened, freer body language. But even then, it’s hard to notice any differences unless one’s looking for them.

And the betting pot has grown, just by the two of them tossing back and forth. Hell, Varric is loosening silvers from his wallet confidently, like he has nothing to lose. My eyes sweep over the glistening coins and I count six silvers and about seventy bronze pieces. Damn. That’s… I don’t even know what the currency rate would be if I thought in dollars.

I glance to my hand and slowly study the paintings. I’ve ended up with three knights and two daggers, which is a good middling hand. But my eyes flick up to study Varric’s face, and his eyes are gleaming. He taps a single finger against the table. Does that mean he thinks he has a good hand?

Solas suddenly sighs and I glance to him instead. He places his cards face-down and slumps his shoulders, the edges of a frown pulling at his lips as he glances up at Varric. “I fold. I know when I’m beat.”

Varric barks out a laugh. “Really? You’ve never folded before, Chuckles.”

Solas only shrugs.

“Fine. If that is what you want, I’ll gladly take your coin.” The dwarf reaches for the cup.

“Wait.” Solas’s stern voice halts Varric in his tracks. He raises a finger and a wry smile pulls at his lips as he points to me. “You have to beat Rhaena to claim that pot, Varric.”

“ _Me_?” I squeak. “But I put no money in the pot.”

“You’re playing the game, are you not?” Solas perks a brow with a smile.

Oh, the sly, sly wolf.

“Fine then,” Varric chuckles and leans back in his seat. “I’m cool with that.”

And the next card to be drawn from the deck, and played, is the Angel of Death.

Suspicion plucks in the back of my head. Did Solas know that the next in the deck would be the game’s final play?

“Sorry, Raindrop” – I watch Varric smile wide and play his hand face up: three songs, a knight, and a serpent – “but this pot is mine.”

“Wait,” I cut in and Varric stirs. I have three knights and two daggers. Does that… is that… “I think I might have-” I play my cards face up across from Varric’s “-did I win?”

The dwarf’s jaw drops and Solas breaks out in unbridled laughter. “You did indeed, Rhaena. Well done.” The wolf eases back in his chair with his hands clasped together upon his lap. “The pot is yours.”

Varric begrudgingly pushes the pot toward me. “Beginner’s luck,” he mutters. “But you got the hang of it.”

“I’m not taking your coin,” I say with a shake of my head. “You’ve already paid for drinks and food. I’m-”

“You won, Rhaena.” Solas turns to me with a calculating glimmer in his steady gaze. “Which means you get to reap the benefits. The pot is yours.” With a flick of his wrist, a wisp of green-blue magic envelopes the coins and briskly dumps the bits and pieces into a little pouch he pulls from his pocket. As soon as the knots are tied, his gloves fingers turn up one of my hands and he drops the pouch onto my palm.

He… knew. He _knew_ , somehow, that I may win. He knew he wanted to give me the coin. But… why? Yet Varric offers me a wave of dismissal.

“Rhaena, I am rich. I don’t need that money,” Varric says.

Solas tilts his head. “The Inquisition pays me quite well. I usually use that coin for food and drink, so don’t worry about it.”

Without a word, I look to the pouch in my head and balance the weight of coins steadily. There’s… a lot here. But that still doesn’t answer my question; how would Solas even know I’d win, unless he-

… Oh, the clever wolf.

I lean forward, in an odd sort of curious daze, and my fingers grace over Solas’s folded hand. His grip suddenly finds my wrist and my gaze snaps to his. His stare is steady, but there’s a wrinkle to his brow and a twitch to his frown. The gray in his eyes has darkened to a stormy ash.

What is he hiding? Why does the chill in his eyes, and the pluck of magic at my skin, feel like a threatening dare?

I should let it go, let Varric withdraw all the cards, but my curiosity breaks through the ice of Solas’s glare and I flip his cards right side up.

Solas’s lips twitch.

“Chuckles, you son of a bitch,” Varric barks.

I glance down at his folded hand; four serpents and a knight. As clear as day.

Solas folded a  _winning_  hand; one that would’ve surely given him the pot. So,  _why_?

His fingers slip from my wrist as I lean against the edge of the table. “Well played, Solas,” I comment and let the pocket of coins drop into his hands. But he almost seems… disappointed. He’s smart and clever; he should’ve realized I’m the same from the start.

But maybe he has. Maybe this was a test. If it was then… then…

My magic snaps at my skin, my smile fades with a chill and I draw my hand from him like I’ve been burnt. Within seconds, I’m out the door into the frost of another winter night.

I bound down the stairs and trudge through the heavily trampled path of snow toward the quarters I share with Khammana. My left arm is nestled into my side against my ribs, and I feel the silence stick close, until someone is suddenly  _right_  behind me.

“You left your bounty in the tavern, Rhaena.” I feel the draw of Solas’s breath against the top of my ear but I press on. He follows at my heels quickly and I can hear the clank of coins.

“You mean  _your_  bounty,” I counter. “You had the winning hand.”

“I folded. A fold is a withdrawal, a loss. This means  _you_  won.”

What a stubborn, stubborn man.

“You don’t understand how competitive I can be, Solas. We’re going to butt heads constantly if you’re to keep trying to persuade me I won when I know otherwise.”

“I’ll make note of that.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “May I ask you a question then, Rhaena?”

“Will it have anything to do with our game?”

“No.”

“Then you may.”

“Do you not know how to read?”

I freeze in my steps. My fingertips dig into the palms of my hands. “I know how to read. But…”

“Not in common?” Solas finishes for me, and oddly enough, I nod. “What language do you write in?” I can almost taste his magic experimentally brushing up against my skin, like he’s testing, like he’s trying to paint an image of how much information I’m willing to give away.

This dreaded wolf is always two steps ahead; he always knows what his opponent’s next move is. If this was a game of chess, I’d be but a pawn – but a pawn that catches his eye. A pawn that may be more than a pawn, requiring his attention to dispatch from the playing field.

The problem is he’s the Dread Wolf. I know this, but he doesn’t realize I do. And what was the Dalish saying?  _May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent_?

He’s caught mine, and now I have to find a clever way to hide it from him once more.

“It’s… difficult to explain,” I say. “And I’d rather not talk about it.”

Solas leans back and his magic withdraws, little by little. “Of course,” he says gently and finally I feel more comfortable. “Would you allow me the opportunity to mentor you in writing then?”

I bite back a scoff.

He doesn’t give up, does he?

I turn on my heel to stare up at him and meet the smug glint in his eyes. “If I say yes, will you stop asking me questions?”

“Possibly.” What a clever way to say he  _could_  or  _could not_  stop asking.

“Once your ‘possibly’ becomes ‘absolutely’, then we’ll talk.”

Solas only smiles wider, and I turn away to continue toward the cabin.

“It would be wise to learn some common and some protective warding before our travel to the Hinterlands begins,” his voice rises.

 _Our_  travel?

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“The Herald and advisors of the Inquisition feel it might be beneficial for you to join us on a voyage into the Hinterlands.”

“And you decided to only now tell me this?”

But Solas remains unnaturally straightened, stoic. “I wished to tell you after I offered to teach you.”

It’s always something with him, isn’t it?

“I’ll consider it,” I concede. “But for now I should…” I take a step back from him, toward the cabin.

“Yes, of course.” There’s a glimmer in his eye. “Sleep well, Rhaena.”

He remains where he stands with hands clasped at his back, even as I inch away. When my body presses against sanded wood, I reach over with my right hand and whip the door open to disappear inside.

The warmth of the fireplace is a welcome brush over my skin, and I’m finally able to take a long, deep breath now that I’m out of the sight of the dreaded trickster god. I’m shaking; I hadn’t realized I’m shaking until I settle my hands against my bedside table.

But there’s a sudden, odd weight in the inside of my jacket that I don’t remember-

 _No_.

That sly man.

I pull my jacket off and slip my hand into my pocket until I curl my fingers around a leather pouch. I recognize the touch of nugskin and leather ties, and a curse slips from my lips.

The pot from Wicked Grace; the one I left in Solas’s palm.  _How_  did he slip it into my jacket without me noticing?

“Well played, Solas.”

Well played indeed.


	9. Rhaena

I wish it’d be easy.

I wish I could simply explain who I am, and where I come from, without fear the advisors of the Inquisition would see me at the woodman’s axe. But there are too many elements and factors that need to be taken into account. I’d be a threat to them; a prophetic mage who can see possible events of the future.

Remembering the tale of Andraste, she was met with much the same resistance and deniability, claiming to know the word and will of the Maker. But look at where that got her; burned alive at the pyre, and these  _Andrastians_  believe she simply went to join the Maker at His side. But I hardly believe that to be true.

I know what it’s like to close my eyes and see worlds in my dreams; worlds lost to destruction and warfare. I know events that  _should_  only be fictitious but yet play out here like lives dangling from strings. If I say the wrong thing, who knows what the effects will be. Like the butterfly effect; a butterfly may flap its wings here but it would spur a hurricane halfway across the world. Or, an easier thought – picking up a blade now and keeping it at my side would allow me to use it to protect myself at a later date, instead of refusing to pick up one and dying at the hands of another.

Too many possibilities; too many ways for things to go wrong.

So I sleep.

Or, at least try to.

The Fade is not a welcoming place for me. It  _hurts_ , plucking painfully at the magic that tries to sink beneath my skin. The sky parts and rocks reshape, the ground sprouts the bud of a tree and then a grown oak within a matter of seconds, and odd entities swim through the air with an unbridled sense of curiosity.

I’m on some lone perch surrounded by a vast cloud of green, but as I tentatively raise a foot to step forward, rocks twist and form into a path that’s hardy and steady under my weight, malleable.

Familiar houses, that remind me of Haven, float on isles through the sea of green, and in the distance twists a too-tall temple of ice and snow. Overhead that, shadowed by cloaks of fog, large wings curl and flap. A devastating roar cracks through the wind like a whip and startles me back until I slam harshly to the ground below.

The creature spins and cascades and the scales upon its body catch an odd shimmer of yellowed light, and reflect its spikes and horns in gold.

An odd whisper carries on the wind, a hymn of praise and devotion; of love and rite, and the dragon circles overhead almost with a grace I would not expect. But the pieces of Haven fit together like the individual locks of a greater whole. Past the Chantry, which sits weathered with foliage and age, people climb the snowy steps toward a temple in the skies. They’re but echoes, and I can spot the glimpse of bone and firing nerves through translucent skin.

But they act as if they’re as real as I am, standing in a reconstruction of a much smaller, a much  _darker_  Haven.

Magic pulls at my skin, at the vision unfolding in front of me, but I roll my shoulders absentmindedly as I step from one perch to another, following these visions of singing men and women. One of the visages drags a weeping person through the snow, but they fight and scramble to get away – clawing and scraping until blood drips from their nails like spilled ink.

The high dragon overhead weaves and dives, its scales shimmering a deep royal purple, and its eyes bright with intelligence. All those deep in sound silence drop to their knees in a heady bow before the dragon snaps up the flailing, yowling hostage at their backs.

“ _Andraste_ ,” the bowing visages whisper, and it all  _clicks_. The dragon, these people, the sacrifice, the temple in the distance. This story, or memory, is pre-Fifth Blight. The glory of the dragon overhead is awe drawn by the memory of its followers, at their belief that she’s Andraste-incarnate. And the beauty they see in her is reflected in this awareness.

But as soon as I recognize the glory and beauty they so vehemently believe, it’s gone. Instead, the beauty of the dragon’s scales dull and instead drips with slick, blackened blood. Massive, chipped teeth jut from blistered lips and eyes – once the glorious glow of green – are replaced with crimson bloodlust.

The call that slices through the air is full of rage and, below, the bodies of its worshippers fade away and are replaced by new memories embraced with weapons, vials, and small bombs. At the front of them stands an elf with dark tattoos that pattern her face, and pressed to her side a massive dog – a mabari – that bears its teeth, snapping and snarling toward the circling dragon in the sky. Its master shimmers like a brilliant blue light and an image of iron feathers flashes across her face before a mask forms from wisps of the Fade.

The Hero of Fereldan.

“ _Suledin_!” The Hero draws a sword at her side and raises it straight to the snowy peaks above. “Clear the way!”

The striped mabari stretches its muscles and bounds up the rocks, past sprays of fire – like a burning image of the legendary Fereldan sigil; the memories of this dog bright as it attacks a dragonling emerging from its nest.

But the vision ends there; there’s no glorious, bloody battle. Instead, all of it scatters like the shattered reflection from a pond’s calm surface.

More magic plucks at my skin, and I feel  _something_  scrape against the corners of my mind and thoughts. Something eerily familiar and dangerous; it sends a chill down my spine, like a force that trudges close and claws for entrance impatiently. Almost like a demon, but not.

It pushes against boundaries I’m unsure of how long may remain tall and strong, so I twist my hands into fists and close my eyes. “Wake up.” I try to beckon to myself. Magic plucks at my skin and the buzz of the Fade is still heavy. The imposing force at the back of my mind presses closer and closer. “Wake up.  _Wake up_.”

The Fade hums violently, like the crest of a low whistle, and suddenly snaps. A hand covered with claws and fur clasps down against my shoulder as _six_  eyes peer at my back, but the Fade  _rears_  away – as does the entity’s touch.

I jerk forward and, with a startling cry, fall from the twisting furs and bedding of my cot. Hitting the cold stone below me, the sounds of wood scraping across rock pulls me to stare up in shadow.

Khammana stares down at me and a frown pulls at the edges of her faintly scarred face. “Bad dreams?” Her expression softens. “I knew someone, a mage, who used to have terrible nightmares. She would whimper most nights and, though she never told us of her dreams, I knew she was plagued by demons.”

I struggle to my feet bit by bit, grasping at the ends of a rounded table for support, before drawing in a long breath.

“What I’m trying to get at is that you don’t need to hold on to your dreams yourself. You can talk to others about them and we’ll do what we can to help. You’re not alone in this, Rhaena.”

But I am, and this ‘ _Herald_ ’ just doesn’t realize it.  _No one_  understands it. Well maybe  _one_  person does but –

No,  _no_. I will not go to him. I  _cannot_  trust him. We aren’t from the same world, or the same time period. We aren’t the same, and we most definitely do not share the same goals.

This world is a mystery to me. I know  _no one_ ; just glimpses of people I thought were only fiction. Now they stand before me, as real and tangible as I seem to be. They’re real people, but yet they shouldn’t be. They should be only figments. I doubt even their deaths would bother me.

I rub my hands down my arms, but concede, “Thank you, Khammana. I appreciate that, I do. When I feel more comfortable, I may. But right now, I need some time.”

Khammana nods lowly as I pull on my shoes and jacket, swiftly leaving the comfort of a warmed cabin. I find, as I brush my hands across my ears, that the sharpened tips are foreign to me. Unlike me. I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

Others will look at me like I’m absolutely insane or mad, lock me up, or worse. And I can’t speak to the one person that may understand; he’ll want to kill me. After all, he’s the type of person to let his enemy take his  _pawns,_  then sacrifice his  _queen_ , while he – the  _mage_  – waits for the opportunity to strike the winning blow.

I’m not as smart or as clever as him, I know that. I think I will never be, but I still do wish to survive. So, I sit in silence at the edges of Haven’s snow-capped slopes.

A few birds flutter through the air and I wish that I too would be able to sprout wings and fly through the sky without a single care in the world. Reduce myself to living out a nomadic existence, simply surrounded by the peace of animals and wordless whispers on the wind.

I pad through the snow, stretching aching muscles. Thankfully, my ribs no longer ached after taking that potion.

I turn toward the clouds as nippy winter air swipes across my cheeks, but this chill is welcome. Heat, a memory of pain, still hums beneath my skin and somehow still radiates in the magic that’s so tightly twined in every fiber of my being.

Had the bombings and my sudden arrival in Thedas given rise to the magic that so eagerly wisps at my hands? Was it an accumulation of events – the destruction of Earth, being ripped from one dimension into another – or some holy, divine act of some absent Maker twisting his influence and will deep in me like a knife that can’t be pulled free?

I sigh deeply and taste the bite of fresh snow and ozone on my tongue. There’s the hint of charred campfires, sandalwood, and straw on the wind, and my eyes find the dormant Breach swirling above the temple.

There are so many little hurts,  _so many_. Like the coiling and pop of nerves; like the touch of a melting snowflake against my fingers, but nothing seems to soothe the ache. It’s… a lonely thing to feel, being the last of your people, unable to trust others around you and even think who is real and who isn’t, and if this is all just an odd twist of a nightmare.

And where I am but a ghost.

* * *

 

A few days press onward, and then the day for our leave to the Hinterlands comes too fast. I’m almost effectively dragged to the stables by some invisible leash, Khammana hounding at my heels. She mumbles a few words that sound like Qunlat, but I press my hands to my chest and skittishly worry away from the rogue’s ever-watchful stare.

I’ve packed a few things and acquired a few new garments thanks to the money I got from Wicked Grace. I even put in a requisition for some potions and helpful aids beneficial to most women of certain ages. I don’t even know how long it’s been, but better to be prepared in case it comes to that time of the month.

The horses readied at the stables are strong, but used more for plowing fields than traveling amazing distances in short periods of time. And… for me… intimidating. It has been quite a while since I’ve ever been near a horse, and a memory tugs on my lonely heart.

 _“Momma, no! I don’ wanna!”_   _I howled as I clung to my mother’s shoulders. I was barely more than nine years old and we were visiting the farm of a family friend who owned horses and other animals. They offered me lessons, but the moment I was face to face with one of their horses, I was grabbing my parents like the life would be drained from me if I didn’t._

 _“His name is Cookie,” my mother tried to reassure me. “He won’t hurt a single hair on your head.”_ _And then the chestnut colored gelding leaned forward and brushed his massive nose against my mother’s shoulders. But I whimpered and cried, and my parents called it a day._

 _I never did learn to ride_.

“Rhaena, are you listening?”

I blink and snap back, a fist clenched tightly to my chest, and meet Cassandra’s hardened and questioning gaze. “Hmm?” I mumble.

The warrior’s jaw tightens and she raises a hand to point toward a stable-hand leading a horse from the area for tacks and saddles. “Your horse is ready,” she grunts softly before she walks to hers, a dark russet brown gelding that’s almost as big as Khammana’s mount.

But I stare at the cinnamon-colored mare they’ve escorted out. My bags and other items have already been tied to its back, and it waits attentively with the others. Along with the two women, both Varric and Solas are already upon their horses with reins in hand.

“Let’s go, Rhaena,” Cassandra orders and waves her hand impatiently.

All color drains from my face.

But they all watch me; even the stable-hands are looking me over with a curiosity that makes the hairs on my neck stand on end. Cassandra taps impatiently at the leather of her saddle and her horse mimics much the same, hoofing at the snow along to a harsh snort of air.

I should just turn and bolt, but I feel frozen where I stand.

Instead, the stable-hand pulls at the horse’s lead and escorts her to me. Close enough that I can feel her breath on my cheek, the horse leans forward and brushes the tips of her lips against the jacket strewn across my shoulders.

I startle and flinch.

“Rhaena.” Khammana’s voice picks up, and her horse snorts a gust of air. “Are you afraid of horses?”

Heat flashes across my cheeks. “I –  _no_ , no. It’s not – it’s… I don’t know how to ride one.”

Realization dawns across their faces, but the guilt and pity spikes in my heart. My shaking hands rise to brush against the stitched leather saddle. I’m trembling so badly, it’s hard to get a grip on the reins.

“Rhaena,” Solas speaks up and I flinch. “Would you like one of us to help you-”

“No, no,” I say too quickly.

I’ve seen others get on the backs of horses.  _I do not need help_. Especially not from the Dread Wolf. Or maybe I’m just overestimating my capability to get on this horse…

It takes me awhile to pull myself into the saddle, but the cinnamon-colored horse is patient enough to allow me to. I steady myself once I’m finally within the mare’s saddle and tighten my fingers around the reins. But she’s a gentle mount; giving and kind, and once the others begin the trot, my mare snorts gently and twists her head to gaze up at me with dark brown eyes. And then she begins the path with a soft lope.

The day trudges by in a muddy depression, and my mare sticks to the back of the line where I’m not often disturbed. Sometimes the others would cast looks my way, and even Solas would reach with a brush of his aura, but when I do not respond to questions or prodding magic, they all withdraw completely.

As the first day comes to a close, my entire body  _burns_. It’s hard enough for me to shift in the saddle, let alone try to pull my feet from the stirrups.

By the time the others have set up a camp for the night, I’m still curled up in my seat upon my mare. I can’t feel the lower half of my body and my hands tremble around her reins, not that she seems to mind much.

A hand steadies against my mare’s lead and gently guides her to the other four horses securely watched by two Inquisition scouts. My eyes search through the dim dusk and find Solas there.

Before I can even catch his gaze, before he can even see my face, I pull one foot from my mare’s stirrup and try to pull from the second only to fall to the ground with a painful slam.

Solas twists away from my cinnamon mare. “Rhaena-”

“I’m okay,” I say, red heating my cheeks as I pull myself up and dust off my clothes. A little embarrassed, but okay.

Solas blinks, but his gaze softens. “Of course. Are you alright to come to the campfire?” He gestures toward the others; Varric, Cassandra, and Khammana sitting around a warm, flickering fire, roasting the meat of a caught and skinned ram.

But past the campsite, I hear the soft rush of water and the scent of pond lilies against my tongue. Instead, I shake my head.

“In a moment. I noticed a small pond right outside the campsite. I can just going to wash up. It’ll only take me a few minutes,” I say.

“I should join you.” Cassandra rises from her spot at the campfire, but Varric pipes up.

“Seeker, let Raindrop have a few minutes alone,” he says, and for that I’m thankful.

Solas bows his head gently in silence, so I step around a few of the stationed scouts, foot by foot down a hoof trodden path, and to the soft, wispy reeds of a rushing pond river.

Collapsing in the shallow foot of water, I cup some to splash against my face, welcoming the chill it gives. But the fire beneath my skin doesn’t fade; instead, it only deepens in the marrow of my bones. It burns – a painful ache that shudders through every nerve, every muscle, and every ligament. The strain in my thighs and lower back are nothing compared to this itching fever; it only eats away at the aches and compels my heart to race.

We’re gone from the snow, from the mountains, and from the surroundings of society.

And for the first time since I’ve woken here, I can really  _breathe_.

I turn my head up toward the starry sky lit by constellations and the glow of two moons. Little firebugs weave to and fro between the tangling of trees, and I can taste  _too many_  things upon my lips and tongue.

The moss that hangs from overhead branches.

Dirt stirred up from fresh storm, hooves of animals, and the way of wagons.

Trees dripping with sap, and others with bark peeling away with age or seasoned weathering.

Then there’s something else; a bite of a thought, a stirring of rush, a tremor in my heart that brings to mind the forests of home. The times I reveled in the chase, the brisk hikes with Rhys at my side, or the flutter of my heart when I ran over unsteady ground and leapt over fallen logs without a second thought.

For once, it brings a peace of mind.

An acceptance that I’m here; acknowledgment that I’m the survivor of a lost world with no possible way to return. And what did I do there when I needed to clear my head from stress, and beat relief and freedom back into the ties of my lungs and hum of my heart?

I sat around in nature and simply breathed. And that’s what this  _heat_  beneath my skin is beckoning me to do. The shudder that runs through my limbs and a quiver through my fingers; I brush my palms through mud and weeds while my magic hums almost expectantly against my skin.

There’s an odd familiar pluck behind me that searches, but I rise from the pond and step away from the Inquisition camp. The songs of night carry  _home_  and my mind searches. Past trees, around fallen logs, past slopes, and under mossy branches; I inhale deeply and my magic thrums so powerfully now it’s like a second skin that coils around my heart and muscles. I laugh to the howling wind and it calls back. Light, something pure, glistens through my eyes – something  _new_ , and magic twists across my skin.

“Rhaena!”

Voices ring out, and I whip my head back toward the direction of camp.

I recognize the symphony of Khammana, Cassandra, and Varric. No Solas, but there’s a magic that reaches through the wood, like the reading of a green-blue aura that beckons for an answer.

But my magic pulses so loudly against my skin, blocking out Solas’s prodding aura that searches and searches. It drowns out the calls and the pounding of the heartbeats echoing in my ears. Instead, it’s like someone reaching with arms wide open, welcoming. It’s hard to explain.

I shuffle anxiously, and the magic twists in my head, like the taste of air. Something lingers on my tongue, an urge for freedom I feel quivering through every nerve.

But instead, my shoulders slump and I turn, returning the way I came. Up past the Inquisition scouts, into the tree line, until I can feel the heat of a campfire against my cold, wet cheeks.

“There you are, Raindrop!” Varric guffaws. “We were worried! You were gone for a while and Cassandra was ready to send out a patrol.”

Cassandra groans. “ _Not_ a patrol, Varric. Only one or two scouts.”

“Sure, Seeker."

“Nonetheless, she is back and all is good!” Khammana pipes in. “Cassandra, how is the ram looking?”

“Excellent, Herald, just a few more minutes.”

But Varric scoffs, “Only if you want the meat overcooked!” which elicits a scowl from the warrior.

However, Solas turns from his spot upon a carved log in one corner, a familiar reading aura weaving around him. The same that prodded for an answer, the same that welcomed with arms wide open. “Rhaena, would you care to sit?” he asks, gesturing toward the freed space beside him on the log. His magic is warm – beckoning – and I cannot dare to refuse.

Despite the dew sticking to the log, blankets have been laid out, and heat radiates through the threads. Some form of warming rune?

Solas leans over, but enough to prod into personal space, his magic gentle against my skin. “Are you alright?” he inquires. “You were out there for quite some time.”

“I…” Swallowing, my shoulders draw tightly. But, Solas’s brows furrow, concern flickering through gray-blue eyes. “I was just thinking about my family.”

“Do you think they could still be here?” Solas asks.

“No.”

I wish I could say yes; I wish it could be that easy to believe my family might’ve survived a nuclear apocalypse, but I am here. They are not. I can no longer feel them; only their memories twist within the strings of my heart.

And yet, Solas lays his palm on top of my hand, nestled against the threads of the log’s blanket. “I am deeply sorry,” he says. “Just know that whatever you need, _all_ of us are here for you.”

“Thank you,” I simper.

And in front of us, between the roasting ram and Khammana – her hand stifling her laughter – Cassandra and Varric continue at their bickering.

“Have you heard from any of your Kirkwall associates, Varric?” Cassandra speaks up.

“You’re asking me?” Varric blinks wide. “So you don’t read my letters?”

“You’re no longer my prisoner, much as you like to act like it.”

Varric scoffs back. “Yet I still get all the suspicion.”

“I am not without sympathy, especially given recent events.”

“Why, Seeker, I would never accuse you of having sympathy!” I can hear the rumble of Varric’s laugh echo in the campground around us. “By the way I tend to refer to my ‘associates’ as ‘friends’. Maybe you’re not familiar with the concept.”

Cassandra sighs.

* * *

 

It takes another two days of travel to reach the borders of the Hinterlands. We press onwards, leaving our horses at Scout Harding’s stationed camp, and continue on foot.

For a place that’d been devastated by the Blight, the Hinterlands are astonishingly beautiful. All the green in the slopes, the still standing structures and beauty of color in the leaves of trees, it’s difficult to tell that this land was swarmed and ripped apart by darkspawn and legions of undead. But now it’s the sight of an even bloodier disaster; rogue templars and mages at each other’s throats, bathing the soils in more, unnecessary bloodshed.

There’s much to be done here, with so little time to accomplish it, but the Inquisition expands its presence, easing the minds of some several land owners. The warning of dangerously organized highwaymen is on the tip of every scout’s tongue, but for now, the threats are the rogue mages and templars trying to take us at every turn. We press on, up through slopes, past statues centuries old, higher and higher into the Hinterlands.

I press close to the backs of the others, but there’s no weapon for me to hold, no staff to hold tight if some templar decided to attack us. Until the clatter of metal on metal rattles through my teeth and rings in my ears. Ahead, a rusted blade collides with Khammana’s dual blades, the glow of lyrium in the eyes of a templar staring straight at the Herald. This one’s armor is tainted with fresh blood, from a twisted, mangled body that lays barely a foot away.

But he’s not alone; several more templars draw down from the slopes, a few with their eyes trained on Cassandra and Varric, and one on Solas.

Khammana hisses lowly, “Drop your weapons  _now_.”

“Go back to Seheron,  _ogre_ ,” the templar sparring with Khammana spits. He jumps back and his blade slices away from Khammana’s, turning on his heel – even in his full armor – and swings out once more.

But she catches his grip too easily and drive the blade into the tender flesh between his upper right arm and breast. The templar bellows out a startled cry, drops his weapon, and falls back to the ground as his blood runs slick down his chainmail and armor – right as his companions charge.

Cassandra clashes with two templars armed with shields while Varric tries to incapacitate another who lands a blow against Solas’s expertly crafted barrier. Sword hits magic and the air singes with the scent of ozone. But Solas staggers back and, bit by bit, his barrier beaten again and again. But behind him… a shadow, and the glint of lyrium-colored eyes.

“ _Solas_!” I shout, and step forward – but the world carries me forward; the next moment, I’m at Solas’s back, arms outstretched. And then I hit the ground.

I can’t breathe. I can’t see. My heart, squeezed tight, feels like it’s been slammed into my spine. A gargled cry spills from others around me as flesh rips and the scent of copper blood greets me.

Firm hands grab at me, two fingers grasping at my chin. Sight floods back until I can only stare forward into Solas’s eyes – flooded with anger. Wrath. But something more – concern?

“Don’t _ever_ do that again!” he scolds.

A cloth’s pressed to my nose and, past Solas, Cassandra has the last templar – now weaponless – on his knees. I can’t hear what she screams, but the templar cowers and shakes.

“What _happened_? Did she take a sword?” Khammana’s voice bellows over them all.

“No physical wound,” Solas hisses. “But she took a Smite for me.”

“Smite?”

“It dampens the power of mages,” Cassandra calls over.

“On a trained mage, it will paralyze their abilities for a time, but for an _untrained_ mage like Rhaena is” – Solas’s firm hands press into my shoulders and a wave of magic sinks into my skin, but a hiss slips past clenched teeth – “it will do so much more to their body and spirit.”

“Damn, Raindrop, how many times is that now?” Varric stands close, but my ears ring deafeningly.

“Two? Three?” I croak.

“Seeker, we need to make camp,” Solas says. “Rhaena shouldn’t carry on right now.”

“No, I-”

“I agree,” Khammana speaks up, her shadow fallen over us, her dual blades dripping red with blood.

“What about that templar then, Chuckles?” Varric asks.

“Cassandra can deal with him. For now, Rhaena needs to rest.” He leans closer, gray eyes cold and wrathful. “And you, _Rhaena_ , need to sleep off your stupidity.”

* * *

 

It’s the worst possible location for a camp, but apparently I gave them no choice.

The camp’s nestled between a line of trees, steep mountainous sides, and a drop over a hundred feet down into icy waves and jagged rocks below.

Inquisition scouts haven’t arrived yet, instead it’s just the five of us, and barely a tent or two to make up the entirety of the camp. And apart from Solas’s scolding, I settled down in the smallest tent, curled up in a bedroll of furs and cloth.

“What you did was very-”

“Yes, yes, very stupid,” I interrupt Solas with a mumble, looking up at him from the corner of my droopy eyes. “Doesn’t it help I was just trying to save you from being stabbed in the back by a templar?”

“No.” Of course not. “How do you feel?”

“Like shit.”

“Your _magic_ , Rhaena.” Oh.

The familiar trickle and crackle of magic I’ve grown used to have dissipated, hidden beneath my skin, and the aches of my body are as present as ever.  I’ve never felt more human, more vulnerable – more like I am back in the world I once called home.

“Can’t feel it,” I confess. “Just tired.”

Solas scoffs; an unfamiliar gesture I’ve never seen him do. “You’re lucky that’s the only thing you’re recovering from.”

“Can’t I just sleep? Will I not feel better when I wake up?”

“Maybe, but right now you’re susceptible to demonic possession. Your magic is dampened and that makes sleeping dangerous. You’ll need a guide.”

“Meaning you?”

“Yes me.”

“Sorry.”

“What-?” Solas blinks, the storm gray of his eyes lightening as surprise twinkles in the blue. “Why are you sorry?”

“I’ve delayed us and acted stupid so, for all that, I apologize.”

His lips twitch. “Just… let’s focus on getting you better.” Solas pulls the flap of the tent back and twists until he’s half in light and half in shadow. “I’m going to get you some food and cold clothes.”

“Alright, I-”

A sudden snap of a nearby twig and the whistle of something slicing through wind cuts a cry from Khammana’s lips before Solas suddenly straightens.

“What is-”

But a hiss falls from Solas’s lips, “Do not make a noise. _Stay here_.” He draws out, the flap of the tent covering up the light from the setting day, but dark voices heckle and taunt. And I reach forward to pull the flap away.

Khammana’s toppled down to a knee, and a bloody arrow juts from the meat of her leg as shadows descend, surrounding the camp on all sides.

But not by templars.

Some wear templar armor, others iron or imperial garments, and helms of all different shapes and sizes. Bandits and highwaymen, and too many have bows and arrows leveled close to my companions’ heads. Solas hasn’t called upon a barrier, and Cassandra’s hand is frozen on the hilt of her sword thanks to a bandit’s weapon leveled at her throat. Varric is on his knees and two more bandits have wretched Bianca from his hands.

I can’t move.

A booming guffaw of a laugh wretches the air around the camp, and a man – bigger than most of his companions – and wearing a Grey Warden’s helm approaches on heavy armored boots. “Look what we have here, boys!” he chortles. “A colorful group of jesters.”

The bandits all chuckle.

Their leader, a man with too many burly features hidden by the cuffs of armor, circles my companions with a warhammer pressed to his shoulder. “A jumping dwarf armed with a  _toy_ , an elven mage with not a speck of hair on ‘im, a woman who thinks herself a warrior, and an oxman savage. Or, sorry, ox _woman_. I can’t tell a man from a woman with your kind.” The man leans down toward Khammana. “How’s your leg, savage?”

“It  _hurts_ ,” she bites out.

“Sorry about that.” The bandit leader waves his hand dismissively. “My boy was aiming for your organs.”

“You’re addressing the Herald of Andraste,” Cassandra speaks up. “Curl that foul tongue of yours, zealot.”

The bandit leader drives his fist into her face, and Cassandra staggers back, spitting blood upon the ground.

“The  _Herald of Andraste_ , hmmm?” The bandit leader tilts his head and his armor links clank roughly, acting like he didn’t just hit Cassandra across the jaw. “I heard you  _glow_. Is that correct? Oh, that’d be a fine prize and make me some good coin. What do you think, boys?”

The bandits all riot and cheer.

“Wonderful,” the leader snickers.

“What – what are you going to do?” Khammana snaps out.

The bandit raises a hand and waves a finger. “Why ruin the surprise,  _Herald_.” He spits out the last word with distaste. “ _But_  I will give you a hint. Take their stuff, boys! Everything!”

A glint off a weapon spurs, and I twist – only to meet the eyes of an archer training his arrow in my direction. The twisting, toothless sneer upon his face curdles my stomach, and he hollers out – “ _Boss_! Look’er what I foun’ for ya’!”

The giant of a bandit swings around, and his dark gaze from beyond his helm freezes me in my place – still half way in, and out, of my tent.

“ _Oh_ ,” the burly bandit leader purrs darkly. “Look at _you_. A tiny and adorable thing.”

His bandits all chortle wickedly.

“Come out, sweet thing,” he says.

But I do not move.

“No?” With a roll of his shoulders, the bandit leader grips at Khammana’s horns and pulls her head high, leveling a blade to her throat. “Come out now, sweet thing, otherwise I’ll cut the throat of this oxwoman. Or maybe…” – one of his bandits draws forward and wretches Solas’s face high – “the throat of this bald rabbit.”

Solas’s eyes narrow, the blue of them a stormy gray, and lips curl into a scowl as the blade draws a bead of blade at its sharpened edge. I can’t feel my magic; it hasn’t returned since I was hit by that templar’s smite – there’s nothing else I can do. No other choice.

“Alright,” I squeak out and pull myself from the tent, arms up and palms to the bandits. “Just don’t hurt my companions.”

With a deep, heckling chortle, the bandits release Khammana and Solas, but their leader draws closer. “We won’t hurt them,” he purrs. “As long as you _play nice_.”

He saunters – or draws closer even in that heavy armor of his – rubbing his hands along the hilt of his warhammer. But only when I shrink back in a shadow that rivals even Khammana’s, does he reach forward. Cold, metallic fingers twirl a lock of platinum hair and sweep it behind my ear.

“Ah, you’re a knife-ear too,” he muses. “Are you married to that ugly, bald one?”

His entire company heckles.

“I bet he isn’t much fun. Don’t worry” – the leader draws closer – “you and will have so much fun. What is your name, sweet thing?”

I remain silent.

The bandit’s shoulders tighten. “Now, now, I said play _nice_!” He snaps forward and jerks me forward, wrenching a startled cry from my lips. “ _What is your name_?”

“Rhaena!”

A cruel hum falls from the man. “Good girl, and such a pretty name. Now, I bet you’ll be quite a beauty. Will you play nice with me and my boys?”

“I bet she’s nice an’ tight!” one swordsman raises his voice, and his fellows all chortle and whistle.

“You don’t say? Now, _Rhaena_ ” – my name drips like poison from the bandit’s lips – “are you nice and tight?”

Defenseless, that’s what I am. Without my magic, without a means to defend myself from this man and his cohorts who will kill my companions and – and –

But I can’t let them; I will _not_ allow them.

From beneath my skin, from the _broken_ parts of me that wish for home, something familiar twists around the tethers of heart and slowly beats through my bloodstream, filling my arms with a much needed warmth, that affable presence – but also flashing across my skin in sparks of frightening heat. It bubbles, grows, and settles against the palm of one of my hands – a dangerous chill, a contrast to the figures of magic dancing across the lake with lantern lights; more akin to the blistering scourge of nuclear hell.

It settles and crackles, ready to –

Until an arrow whistles through the air and lodges itself in the meat of my shoulder, throwing me back several steps and eliciting a yelp from my lips.

“Boss, she was ‘bout to magic ya’!” an archer hollers.

“Magic me?” The bandit leader’s eyes, cruel and dark, find mine. “You’re a mage girl? Oh no, we can’t have that, can we?” Sucking the air from my lungs, burly metallic fingers find my throat and _squeeze_ , wrenching me up in the air while I scramble uselessly at his protected wrists. “I was hoping to keep you, but now I have a better use for you.”

 _What is he going to do with me_?

Like I don’t weigh much to him at all, the bandit leader draws across the campgrounds, until he holds me over the steep edges of the sea drop below. And from beyond his mask, a sneer creases across his twisted features.

“ _Don’t_!” My companions shout, but the bandit leader’s fingers only loosen.

And I _drop_. All I’m left to see is an expanse of darkness and blinding stars as I hit the waves below like shattered glass.


	10. Khammana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a new - possibly main - character is introduced in this chapter! ;)

“ _No_!”

Rhaena drops down, like some thrown doll, past the edges of the cliff.

We were supposed to _protect_ her. We brought her with us to learn about her and she can learn to trust us. Now she’s – and now she’s –

And only after waves roar does the bandit leader spin and wipe his hands clean. “Well, I was hoping for a better outcome,” he says. “We would’ve had a great time with her. Such a pretty thing. But now…”

His company laughs.

I watch as Cassandra and Solas are shoved down to their knees; his staff ripped from his grasp and Cassandra’s sword and shield pulled from her back.

Our packs are wrenched away, along with the potions Solas had crafted for us at the start of our day. A few bandits snicker, and several more lower away their weapons while others keep some trained to our heads.

I can’t focus well past the heat of pain and the warmth of blood flowing around the wound in my leg. But I can see the bandits – too many of them – whispering over our bags. A few are speaking with their leader before they suddenly glare our way.

The bandit leader stalks close and sweeps his hand roughly in our direction. “Remove your armor and protective gear,” he orders.

But none of us move.

“You going to be difficult like your mage girl was? Very well.” The leader’s fingers curl tightly into an armored fist before it smashes into my skull and sends me toppling to the ground. His booming snarl echoes like the deafening ring of a gong and I spit up blood and dirt.

“Do  _not_  make me say it again,” the leader growls. “Remove your armor and protective gear n-”

“Boss!” A frightened call from a bandit pulls the leader’s grip away from my hair and horns. And then, the sickly horrid pierce of a gargling cry.

 _Please, no_. Don’t let that be from any of my companions.

I blink past white wisps, and I glance across the shadows of bandits. Many have staggered away, grasping for their weapons. But one, an archer – the one that had shot Rhaena – is impaled at the ends of a long, serrated blade. Their eyes are wide with shock and blood drips from their lips before the sword is ripped away through their spine.

Another armored bandit, or highwayman – or is it a soldier? – stands in the light behind the thieves’ shadows, masked by an obsidian helm that resembles the curled, snarling face of a Fereldan mabari. If I didn’t know any better, this armored  _man_  might rival a Qunari in bulk and height, but there’s no twist of horns, and the armor is unusual for a Tal-Vashoth or Qunari Ben-Hassrath.

The obsidian plates that cover the man’s chest, legs, shoulders, and arms are fashioned with the heraldry of Fereldan’s royal family – Theirin – but carved into the hilt of his massive sword is the sigil of Kirkwall.

“Oh, shit,” I hear Varric whisper briefly before chaos flies.

“ _Kill him_!” the bandit leader orders with a devastating snap, and bandits swarm the mabari warrior. But he somehow moves with a grace, stepping out of the line of splintering arrows or swords in a downswing. Instead, he strikes out with the ferocity of a wild beast; he smashes an armored fist straight into a bandit’s throat, causing them to seize up and collapse, skull crushed in one blow.

He barely uses his sword, instead ripping the bandits from their spots and tossing them into trees like they’re nothing but ragdolls. The sick sound of splintering bones is greeted by the furious cry of death, and soon, the only bandit still standing – and who has not yet lifted a finger or arrow to the warrior – is the bandit leader.

“You-” the leader trembles with rage – or is it fear? “You killed all my men.”

But the mabari warrior does not speak. Instead, he simply waits.

Until the bandit leader charges him. The warrior’s hand snaps out and his claw-like fingers wrap around the bandit’s throat. Their warhammer drops uselessly to the ground and the sounds of gasping chokes fill the air as the warrior lifts the bandit effortlessly. Flesh tears, bones crush, blending with the desperate gasps for air the bandit takes.

Then he suddenly stops and hangs limply from the warrior’s grasp.

He remains there for a minute, before the warrior tosses his body away like a bundle of spindleweed. And then the mabari warrior’s glowing blue eyes focus on  _us_.

He stalks forward, like we’re prey caught in the stare of a hungry predator, but Cassandra’s voice halts him. “By Order of the Chantry, stay where you are, bandit,” she orders.

Hands press around the arrow in my leg and I hiss out, before a whisper or two from Solas lets me realize it’s just him.

“Seeker, stop. He’s here to help,” Varric interrupts.

“ _Help_?” she snaps back.

“Yes.” A deep, gruff voice that cracks and rumbles like a growl comes from beyond the snarling mabari helm. “I will respect your command, Seeker, as you should see to the Herald’s injuries. I am no threat to you.”

But what about _Rhaena_?

I stare toward the steep drop into the waves below, and dread sinks deep in my gut. There is no way someone can survive falling into dangerous waves and jagged rocks.

“Herald.” I hear Solas’s voice try to sooth as I’m slowly pulled from the ground and leant up against a steep cliff wall.  “This is going to hurt.” It’s snapped at one end, ripping a groan from my lips. Swallowing in long, drawn breaths, both ends of the arrow are pulled free from my leg and Solas sinks waves of magic deep into the tendons and muscles.

A potion suddenly hangs in front of my face, gripped by Cassandra. A soft pink liquid glimmers inside. “Drink this. It’ll help the healing process.”

My bloodied fingers take the potion from her and I screw the top off. The scent of elfroot makes my teeth hurt but I swallow the contents as quick as I can. The relief it brings isn’t immediate, but it soon blankets the ricocheting pain until Solas is able to manipulate the skin and muscle to twist and stitch back together.

With a soft sigh, Solas slouches – drained. “I did what I could, but the Herald should rest for the remainder of the day,” he suggests

I nod my head and grunt. “That sounds perfect to me,” I say, and look to the mabari warrior still in his frozen halt. “But first, we should thank our mystery soldier.”

Varric’s chuckle twists confusion across my face before he comes to stand by the warrior’s side. The height different is absolutely astounding. “He’s not a mystery warrior,” Varric says. “This, my friends, is Wolfsbane.”

A deep rumble of a laugh is pulled from the warrior as he shakes his head. “ _Wolfsbane_. You and your nicknames, Varric. It’s always a pleasure seeing you again.”

Varric  _knows_  this man?

“Varric, who is this?” Cassandra demands. “How do you know him?” The Seeker approaches, her sword gripped tightly, like she expects the warrior to suddenly lash out in attack.

Instead, he looks to her. “May I remove my helm, Seeker?” he requests.

Cassandra stills, but blinks and responds. “You may.”

Bulky, muscled hands reach upward and switch open a strap before the warrior pulls it free and steadies it at his hip; his features are Fereldan, and unkempt black hair swirls wildly upon his head, along with a groomed beard, sharp coal-colored brows, piercing blue eyes, and a few faded scars patterned here and there.

“My name is Lyrius Hawke,” the warrior smiles, and the flash of too-long canines stirs a bit of unease in me.

Cassandra bites out a soft gasp. “ _Hawke_? But I thought the Champion’s a woman.” She blinks. “And, and-” Her eyes narrow on Varric and a scowl twists firmly from her lips. “You  _told_  me you weren’t in contact with the Champion!”

“I am not the Champion, Seeker,” Lyrius says. “The Champion is my sister, Yria. But Varric is correct about not being in contact with her. She is a busy woman these days, and sometimes it’s difficult for me to even get a reply from her.”

“I thought the Champion only had one brother and a sister,” Cassandra murmurs.

“I asked Varric to keep me out of the book,” Lyrius explains. “Having me in there would’ve been… a controversial topic, and something I am not comfortable sharing with many.”

“And knowing Wolfsbane and his strength, well, I couldn’t refuse.” Varric clears his throat. “Cutlass, Chuckles, let me introduce you to Lyrius Hawke, twin brother to the Champion of Kirkwall, veteran of the Fifth Blight, and Personal Guard to King Alistair of Fereldan.”

“ _What_?” The word leaves my lips in a snap, and Solas too seems utterly speechless.

But Lyrius smiles and his unusually bright eyes glimmer. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Herald of Andraste.” He bows his head lightly to me, then glances to Cassandra. “Seeker Pentaghast.” He offers her a smile, and finally glances to Solas. “And... Solas, right?”

When Solas nods, Lyrius continues. “Varric told me of you in a letter, but I must say it  _was_  a surprise to see you all surrounded by bandits. I am sworn to Fereldan, so I felt it my duty to step in and help where I could.”

“Thank you for that, Lyrius,” I say. “We are in your debt.”

His smile is calm and gentle, and a few of the scars upon his face wrinkle. “Your gratitude is an honor, but not necessary. In truth, King Alistair sent me to find the Inquisition and offer my services. I am… deeply sorry about your friend. I apologize for not getting here sooner.”

“Your strength” – Solas speaks up, his gaze hardened, almost icy – “isn’t natural. There’s magic to you. If you’re a mage, why use a sword and not a staff?”

“I am no mage,” he says, smile falling quickly. His eyes flash with an unnatural wisp of energy before it quite suddenly fades with a blink of an eye. “But there is magic in me, I will not deny that.”

“You’re not a templar,” Solas continues. “Or a Grey Warden.”

“Correct.”

“What are you then?” I ask.

Varric mumbles a curse under his breath. I’m confused as to why he’d do such a thing – unless he knows what Lyrius has yet to tell us.

“That” – Lyrius clears his throat – “might be a topic to be breached after we get you back into a secure camp. Allow me to do that and then I will tell you what you wish to know.”

* * *

 

There’s no sign of Rhaena, no body washed ashore. No wisp of her magic in the air, or any sign that anyone came in contact with her or seen her from the ships.

The sun sets to the distant howl of wolves, and the light of camp casts all in the warming glow of living flame. Scouts station themselves around the perimeter while I and my companions sit in the consuming warmth of the fire pit. Lyrius joins us, now free from some plates of his armor. Instead, he wears a well-fashioned jacket that stretches over his form. But there’s the faintest hint of dark scars that peek past the neck of his jacket.

“When was the last time you spoke with the Champion?” Cassandra questions for us, but I sit on my log and bite apart skewered rabbit and ram. She and Varric capture Lyrius’s attention, but I see Solas glancing up every so often, attempting to hide a peaked curiosity. He’s almost… I don’t know to describe it; I wonder if intimidated is the right word to use.

“Not for some time,” Lyrius says. “Both my sister and I are busy enough with our current duties. I spend more time writing back and forth with her husband.”

Cassandra’s shoulders sag.

“You were going to tell us what you are,” Solas suddenly speaks up.

“Yes,” Cassandra clears her throat with agreement.

“Shit, really?” Varric sighs. “Can’t we just say he’s our friend and ally and leave it at that?”

“It’s alright, Varric,” Lyrius says gently and takes two skewers of meat that have been on the fire for barely a minute. With the meat still rare, he bites into it like the swell of redness doesn’t bother him. “Varric mentioned I am a veteran of the Fifth Blight. That much is true. When Lothering was sacked by the darkspawn hordes, I was separated from my family. I ended up stranded in some forest and was found by a mage. I thought he didn’t mean me harm but…”

“Wolfsbane, just tell them what you are and not your whole story about how you became it,” Varric suggests. “That’s a rough story. Even I don’t want to hear it again.”

“If they are to trust me, they need to understand,” Lyrius sighs. He shakes his head and glances back to Cassandra and Solas and I, his eyes on each of us at different moments. “He was a  _blood mage_ , and he…  _twisted_  me. You see, there were werewolves in the forests where I landed, and this mage needed protection. He needed something that would protect him, something he could control, and that wouldn’t be twisted into a wanton beast for all time. He took the blood of a slaughtered werewolf and contorted it with mine. He warped me into a beast and I had absolutely no control to fight back.”

“I thought” – Cassandra’s shoulders droop – “In the records it’s said the Hero of Fereldan cured the werewolves of their curse.”

“She cured the werewolves that were turned like all the others in the forest,” Lyrius says. “But I wasn’t turned like all the others. The blood mage that held me manipulated the blood and forced my body into something unique, but monstrous. I wasn’t stuck in one shape like the wolves of the forest, but I would  _turn_. Usually when the mage – he liked to call himself my master – forced me to.”

“But you got away,” Varric says.

And Lyrius nods. “I did. But not without sacrificing a part of myself I’d never get back.”

“You killed the mage,” Solas says, but it’s hardly a question.

“I did. There was no other choice. But I was what he made me still. So I learned how to control it, control  _myself_. The unnatural strength comes from the  _beast_  in me, as do heightened senses, like smell and sound. That’s how I knew where you were; I recognized Varric’s scent.”

“Creepy, but useful,” Varric can’t help but chuckle.

“I met King Alistair while he traveled with the Hero of Fereldan and fought at their side to defeat the Archdemon,” Lyrius continues. “Afterwards, when King Alistair assumed the throne, he asked me to work in his Personal Guard. However, I still needed to get myself under control. I needed to see if my family survived, though I held little faith they did.”

“Lyrius arrived in Kirkwall not long after Hawke and I finished our expedition through the Deep Roads,” Varric says. “I immediately could tell they were family – at least before Yria leapt into his arms. We lost Junior… in the Deep Roads, so finding out Lyrius was alive, well, you two were together almost every day playing some Wicked Grace or bashing in the heads of slavers.”

“Unless she was doing so with Fenris and Isabella,” Lyrius remarks.

 Varric laughs, a deep, throaty sound. “True!”

“Did you learn control?” Cassandra asks.

“After some years, yes,” Lyrius answers. “It was difficult, but with help from Yria and her close friends, I felt more and more comfortable with keeping the beast under control.”

Solas straightens and folds his hands over his lap. “You speak as if this beast is separate from you,” he says.

“Sometimes it feels like that. The beast is one of rage and fury; hard to contain when it’s let free. When I turn, I cannot tell friend from foe, ally or enemy. It all blurs together until all I see is red and screams are the only sounds I wish to hear.”

 _Almost like an abomination_ , I think, but I do not speak it.

“I saw his beast once.” Varric visibly shutters. “It’s not something I wish to repeat.”

“Who stopped you then?” Cassandra asks.

“Yria.” Lyrius smiles and the firelight catches off too-sharp canines. “I always had a temper, but my sister was best at cooling it. It seems even with the beast, she is. Though she did have to use many spells to get me inside a cage before I finally did turn back. My parents always said that when Yria and I were born that she was a tiny thing. But look at her now, the strongest of my entire family.

“After the Annulment at the Kirkwall Circle, King Alistair asked for me to reconsider joining his Personal Guard. Yria thought it would be best for me, and I still owe the King much. He sent me here to assist the refugees and your people in any way I can.”

“We would very much appreciate that help, thank you,” I express to him and the warrior nods his head.

“Then I must warn you of several dangers while you are here,” he says and every trace of a smile fades from his features. “Not only are there demons, bandits, and rogues you need to worry about, but please be wary; I spotted mages and warriors dressed in garments that remind me of wares from Tevinter traders. Many have been spotted in Redcliffe. And then there’s something far more dangerous in the mountains to the east that threatens all of Arl Teagan’s lands.”

“And that is?” I raise a brow.

Lyrius’s eyes gleam in the firelight. “A high dragon.”

* * *

 

“You’re kidding me, Wolfsbane.”

Lyrius sneers across to a crestfallen Varric, and the Fereldan warrior slowly fastens the clasps and cuffs of his armor tight. The bands of obsidian glisten in the dawning light, and Lyrius flexes his fingers, now tipped with dark, metal claws. “Not in the slightest, my friend.”

Varric sighs. “And I thought you mentioning that there’s a high dragon in these hills was just exhaustion. Unlike you, Wolfsbane, some of us do not like going toe to toe with damn dragons. You and Yria are so unbelievable, you know that?”

The rest of us are already around the campsite, clad in freshly washed armor and attire, for the day’s journey. My leg feels mostly healed, if not for the occasional ache… and there still has been no sign of Rhaena. She… I can’t think about it. Bringing her here was a bad idea.

“Do I need to repeat myself, Varric?” I ask. “We’re not going to  _search_  for the dragon. Knowing it’s around will help us plan, but if it doesn’t attack and disrupt the rest of the Hinterlands, then best leave it alone for now.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra gruffly adds in.

Solas is already dressed and prepared at the edge of the camp, hands clasped behind his back. But he’s focused on something in the distance I can’t quite see; or maybe he’s lost in thought.

While the others bicker and groan and finish what they need to get done, I step – heavy-footed – to his side. His eyes flick to mine before back to the outreaching forests before us.

“Good morning, Herald,” he offers stoically. “I hope your leg isn’t causing any trouble?”

“My leg’s healed well, thank you, Solas.” I give him a brisk, thankful nod, and then my voice fades to a whisper. “Were you able to find any trace of her?”

Solas’s eyes meet my own once more, but he’s silent.

I figured out that he was a somniari – a dreamer – while Rhaena was still asleep during her arrival. Solas offered knowledge from dreams, the Fade, and that of the Veil in ways that still go unrivaled. Just how he spoke of his journeys in the Fade allowed me to piece everything together.

“I’m afraid not, Herald,” he sighs. “I have not been able to sense her at all in the Fade. There are a few likely reasons why, some of which include she’s deeply asleep, or she’s…”

 _Gone for good_. Solas doesn’t need to say it for me to understand the gravidity of that.

“If it doesn’t weaken you, would you be able to look for her a bit more during your nights?”

And a half-smile tugs at the creases of his mouth. “Yes, of course.”

“ _Cutlass_!” Varric’s voice cuts through, and I turn toward the dwarf rogue back in camp. His eyes are wide and there’s an uneasy scowl in place of his usual smirk. “We’re not going dragon hunting, are we?”

I glance up, with narrowed eyes, to our Fereldan warrior who slips on his mabari helm to hide the wicked, toothy sneer ever so present.

“No, Varric, we are  _not_ ,” I confirm.

“ _Good_ ,” Varric huffs and crosses his hands over his chest. “Because killing the ones in Kirkwall were bad enough. I’m retired from dragon hunting.”

“What  _is_  the plan today, Herald?” Cassandra speaks up as she sheaths her sword at her side.

“We deal with the panic of the war, try to bring these refugees some semblance of peace, and talk to Mother Giselle, if we can,” I explain, and all four of my companions seem to accept that readily. And hopefully find a trace of Rhaena in the process.

But the fighting between the mages and templars has already worsened; we can hear clashing swords, exploding spells, and the stench of blood and burned flesh heavy in the air.

The clamoring of shouting and screaming only pulls at the dreaded pit in my stomach the closer we run. Magic bristles in the air and against my mark, and the heat of fire runes snaps and crackles with the roar of lightning from flicking staves. The Crossroads.

It’s  _bloody_ ; drenched in it and our armored boots squelch in crimson mud. The air tastes of copper and war. The stained blades of templars ricochet from the splintering woods of houses and held spellbinder staves.

But each group turns to us, fury in their eyes, and I can tell they think us mercenaries working for the other.

“Stand down. We are the Inquisition!” I attempt to rectify, but fury turns blazing scowls our way. A templar readies a bow towards my head, and I lunge away with a curse.

The air is heavy with the metallic tang of blood, wretched sobs and screams fueling the dread that tightening my limbs. Each ringing blow from my blades shreds through leather and armor, splitting apart sinew and skin, before I shove away spellbinder and templar.

My companions all fly through the Crossroads like battle rings in their blood. Cassandra uses her Seeker training to blind several templars as they cross her, before she slices her sword across their throats. Lyrius, the werewolf warrior disarms several spellbinders and templars with calculated swings of his own longsword and, instead, crushes chests, heads, and throats with the strength that unnaturally swims through his veins. Varric jumps and barrels through enemies, and Solas dances across the battle with a limber grace and an experience with war that tingles uneasily in my head.

The fighting ends when too many bodies lay crumbled around our feet. Our soldiers hurry and station at all entrances, pulling away the dead to burn or bury.

Refugees and families peek out from barricaded cottages, and some even inch their way out to welcome our soldiers, shaking with fear. But I offer my hand, as Solas does as well, to a couple bleeding on the ground, and hoist them up.

Even with blood still wet in the soil, we do what we can to solidify some peace and hope in the refugees and survivors who cling to the Crossroads like a lifeline. We’ve stationed many of our new recruits and soldiers on the borders of what remains of the houses, but the wounded that need tending to are tucked in a few cottages on the sloping hills, mages and healers filtering in and out with herbs and staves in hand.

I turn to my companions, all of whom are speaking with refugees or helping in one form or another. Solas is speaking to an elven man, whose face is twisted with despair and worry. Varric is deep into a story with many refugee children and adults gathered around a budding fire; the smiles he puts on their faces might help them forget this war and death for some time. Cassandra and Lyrius are speaking with an Inquisition corporal on the hill toward our gathered but, instead of joining them, I turn toward the wounded and dying.

There’s the glimpse of red and white robes, of Chantry sisters pressing close to the cots of the injured, likely whispering words of peace and faith. And there’s one, with warm brown skin, who settles next to a scowling warrior who hisses in pain at a healer at their side.

“There are mages here who can heal your wounds.” A whisper of a warm and gentle voice from a Chantry sister – or mother – pulls me closer. She brushes her fingers against the bloodied fabrics of the soldier’s arm. “Lie still.”

But the soldier stares up at the healing mage with wide, terrified eyes. “Don’t – don’t let them touch me, Mother. Their magic is-”

“Turned to noble purpose,” interrupts the Chantry mother ever so gently. Her voice is a low chime, a bell that rings of faith and hope and wisdom. “Their magic is surely no more evil than your blade.”

“But…”

“Hush, dear boy. Allow them to ease your suffering.” The mother eases a brush of her hand down their own, and her gentle, coaxing words push the soldier to lean back into his cot. It’s a warming thing to see really, as the healer settles down at the soldier’s side and presses their hands to the wounds dressed through cut armor and leathers.

When the soldier’s eyes flutter shut, the mother rises, but instead her eyes meet my own.

“Mother Giselle?” I ask.

“I am,” she says with a nod. She stops at the crest of the hill, between the heat of a blossoming fire within the medic walls, and the slight metallic chill that carries through the Crossroads. “And you must be the one they call ‘The Herald of Andraste’.”

“Not through any choice of mine.”

“We seldom have much say in our fate, I’m sad to say.”

“So you agree with them?” I ask.

“I do not presume to know the Maker’s intentions, for any of us, but I did not ask you simply to debate with me.”

“Then  _why_  am I here?”

“I know of the Chantry’s denouncement, and I am familiar with those behind it,” Mother Giselle explains. “I won’t lie to you; some of them are grand standing, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new Divine. Some are simply terrified. So many good people senselessly taken from us.” She steps down the crest of the hill, to the stony path leading to a roaring song spurred on by one of Varric’s stories, I bet.

I follow at her side and ask, “But don’t you stand with the rest of the Chantry?”

“With no Divine, we are each left to our own conscience, and mine tells me this: Go to them, convince the remaining clerics you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”

“You want me to appeal to them.”

“If I thought you were incapable I wouldn’t have suggested.” There’s a twinge of a smile that wrinkles the edges of her aged face. It’s an interesting sight, seeing a Chantry mother smirk with such a clever wit.

“Will they even listen?”

“Let me put it this way. You needn’t convince them all. You just need some to doubt. Their power is their unified voice. Take that from them and you’ll receive the time you need.”

“Thank you.” I nod, and glance quickly to Cassandra and Lyrius who walk down the stony path. They’re both talking about something, but what I cannot hear or fathom. The only glimpse I catch is the toothy smirk that Lyrius casts her, and a faint red that rushes to the Seeker’s cheeks.

“I honestly do not know if you’ve been touched by fate, or sent to help us, but I  _hope_.” Mother Giselle says. “Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that could deliver us, or destroy us.”

But it isn’t only me who is building the Inquisition. Yes, I bear the mark that many believe was a gift from Andraste, but I am a Qunari mercenary merely helping where I can. We wish to help, bring back peace and order to lands that desperately wish to cling to it. We wish to wash the lands clean from unnecessary bloodshed and step us into a new era of hope while closing the Breach in the sky.

“I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana with the names of those in the Chantry who will be amenable to a gathering. It’s not much, but I will do whatever I can.”

“If you’d like, a few of the Inquisition scouts are heading back to Haven in two days’ time. You are more than welcome to return with them if you wish.”

With a bow, I leave Mother Giselle to the rest of the wounded and turn to Cassandra and Lyrius as they halt between me and Varric’s cheerful story and refugees’ laughter.

“What did Corporal Vale have to say?” I ask.

“There’s still much to be done here,” Cassandra begins. “He stated that the horse master of Ferelden will not supply the Inquisition with horses without first meeting several members who can help him with bandits and rifts. There are a few strongholds for the templars and mages located throughout the area, which he suggested be taken care of, and a cult in the mountains that has shooed away anyone that comes close.”

“That does sound like… a lot.” I scowl gently.

“Yes,” Cassandra confirms. “But it would be wise to do what we can to clear out these holds and speak to the horse master.”

“A few other things,” Lyrius begins. “I’ve noticed there aren’t many of Arl Teagan’s men here. I asked a few hunters who have helped the refugees and they said that his soldiers were pulled back, and now the gates to Redcliffe have been shut due to increased attacks by templars. Many of the apostates, now lead by a Grand Enchanter, were offered sanctuary there, so clearing out the threat of attacks may put the minds of the gatesmen at ease to allow us passage inside the village.”

“Any news about those possible Tevinter travelers you saw?” I ask him.

“Not much.” He shrugs. “The only rumors I’ve heard come out of Redcliffe, but since the village has been shut for outsiders, there’s nothing else I know.”

A hum pressed past pursed lips and I give a wave of my hand for the two warriors to follow. We settle down at an open fire outside a cabin gifted to us to rest within. A cauldron sits over warm flames, and a hunter stirs the contents of broth, vegetables, roots, and ram meat. He fetches a few bowls and offers them to us as we allow our inhibitions to ease.

“I know of one issue that the horse master has had,” Lyrius begins as the hunter hands him a cup of the meal. “There have been wolves sited around his lands, attacking his farmers and animals.”

“Wolves?” I glance up as Varric and Solas motion to sit at our sides, and Solas’s voice is soft, melodic, even now. A tiny elven child trails behind Varric with their parent pressed at their back.

“Not just around the farms.” The hunter next to the fire grunts gently. “Demonic wolves. I’ve run into some and they do not act like the beasts I had once grown accustomed to.”

From beside the fire, the young elven child speaks up. “Careful, those demonic wolves may be followers of Fen’Harel!”

My eyes narrow. “Who’s Fen’Harel?” I murmur ever so lightly.

“The Dread Wolf,” Solas speaks up. “The Elvhen God of Trickery and Misfortune.”

“Yeah!” The child pipes up. “My momma said somethin’ ‘bout him to scare us into sleeping on time. ‘May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent, da’len, for he will come and eat you whole.’”


	11. Khammana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 200+ kudos, guys?! Wow, you guys are awesome!
> 
> Here's a super early chapter for you in thanks! I'm sure you're all curious what's going on with Rhaena, but this is going to be a Khammana chapter. Stay tuned! ;)

Fire engulfs what has grown back throughout the Hinterlands, cottages and cabins reduced to kindling and flame-eaten stone. Amidst the newly built - newly  _destroyed_  - pathways and homes lay fragments of what was lost over a decade ago when darkspawn raged through what is, once again, a battlefield.

And here, in the blood-soaked grasses, bodies of templar and mage alike are scattered in ruthless abandon. No graves, no pyres to celebrate lives lost - even in such a selfish, disturbing war - instead thrown about like lobs of stone.

“Disgraceful,” Cassandra scowls, her weapon drawn to her side at the ready. But on her left, Lyrius Hawke hovers close, blue eyes tracking the landscapes around us from deep within his mabari helm.

“Agreed,” he gruffly says, blue eyes aglow. “But, I’m sorry to say, there’s not much that can be done for the fallen until the threats of the mage and templar factions have been dealt with.”

That much we can all agree on and, with the King’s personal guard at our front, we press on through the squelching fields and across crumbled bridges.

Varric trails right behind Lyrius and Cassandra, but I and Solas trail at their heels. As close as we’ve all grown within the Inquisition – as members to a common cause, and maybe even  _friends_ – it’s like being back in my company again. But with far less testosterone, wrestling, and  _horns_.

Indeed, I find them all to be excellent companions - all with their different specialties and quirks. From Cassandra’s timely polishing of her sword, at the same time of the day and each night, to Varric’s keen eye and twitch of his lips that allow me to just imagine the gears twisting in his head, and finally to Solas’s enjoyment for quiet and peaceful meditation, lost in his dreams of the Fade or study of spirits. Lyrius is too new, too temporary in our arrangement, so I haven’t noticed many of his mannerisms. Except for maybe his lingering looks toward Cassandra when he believes no one else sees. We are only missing one other person, one small elven girl that has captured us with our magic, taken from us too –

 _No_.

I cannot think of this, of her. She may be gone, or she may yet live. But there are important tasks to handle before we look for any trace of Rhaena, as much as I hate to admit it.

Trails left by the different factions are easy enough to follow and with Lyrius’s handy sense of smell – trailing at the scent of lyrium – the templars’ main camp sits nestled atop two mountain sides, most easy enough to dispatch. It helps that there is only mage in my company, but Varric and Solas stick close, and I less than a foot or so away able to step in when I’m needed. But Solas’s barrier never drops or falters; instead, his spells land with precise direction, a stormy darkness alive in those eyes of his. And it’s a look that says he’s all too comfortable with this, taking lives, with _war_.

When the final templar drops, when they refuse to put down their weapon and come peacefully, a sense of ease floods through the makeshift camp and training ground.

“Anything useful?” Varric pipes up, tucking Bianca against his shoulder.

“Your scouts should be able to make use of everything in these crates,” says Lyrius. “I can smell vegetables and salted meats.”

Sure enough, Cassandra and I crack open one of the crates and inside, tucked in grasses and straws, are dozens of harvested vegetables, several pounds of ram meat, and rolls bundles of furs and leathers.

“Excellent,” I purr and flash a smirk.

Cassandra grunts in agreement. “We’ll have plenty to spread to the refugees.”

“Good.” Solas raises his voice as he looks over a few staves, all tucked away in a corner, all splattered with blood. “Those people need something that’ll lift their spirits after all they’ve been through.”

On that, I cannot agree more.

The apostate stronghold is much the same, except this one is hidden behind massive pillars of ice. The guards and hired mercenaries outside it are easy to take down, however. Waves of magic cascade around the pillars, dawning all of the ice to shimmer and glow with hues of blue and white.

"Solas?" I look to my elven companion as he weaves through the line of bodies and uneven ground to stop at the front of the ice barrier. "Any ideas?"

Our apostate raises a hand high, fingers straight and palm an inch or two from the barriers. Between his touch and the sheets of ice, magic crackles dangerously but simply bounces off Solas's skin like harmless flecks of snow. "One," he says and meets my eyes. "Herald, a word?"

I come to his side mere inches from the icy pillars, the magic of it bouncing off my own armor and visible skin. "Yes?"

"This ice is an illusion of magic, a protective barrier, one that is meant to keep non-mages out," Solas explains. "For non-mages, most cannot pass. It is what it appears: a wall of magical ice. But for those with magic in their blood, me, and even with faint traces, like your mark, we can pass and the ice will be nothing more than a layer of malleable film."

"So you're saying only you and I can cross inside?" I ask.

"Exactly."

"Can they hear us from beyond this barrier?"

"No, but I'm sure they can sense us."

"Let's make this quick then." I nod. "Am I to be your bodyguard then?"

Solas flashes me a raised brow and a coy raise to his smirk. "If you wouldn't mind, yes. Very few will mess with a Tal-Vashoth mercenary."

Indeed.

Behind us, our three companions pull the bodies from their slumps before hiding behind several columns of stone and perpetual, magical ice.

"Ready?" Solas asks, and I respond with my own curt nod. He raises his hand to the barrier, the sparking magic reacting like threads of snow and electricity both. Just like the energy from the mark. His magic twists from his arms, up through his staff, before settling in the palm of his hand. In contrast to the icy blue of the pillars, Solas's own magic - blue and green - radiates warmth. Something this barrier doesn't have, instead prickling along our skin.

Like it's but a panel of glass, the pillars' shimmer disperses, the ice giving away until all that's left is the translucency of water, like the calm ripple of air over a pond's surface. And Solas reaches forward, his palm whisking into the surface, warping the barrier until it peels away and we both walk in together.

It's cold, but the warmth of Solas's lingering magic is enough to keep the chill from trickling through my limbs. Instead, we emerge on the other side inside a massive cave decorated with a camp. Only, it also draws the attention of mages and mercenaries alike.

One man grabs for a sword, stepping in front of a woman dressed in mage robes, leveling his sword toward us. "Who are you?  _How_  did you get in here?"

A few others rise from their seats upon carved logs, even one man in particular - dressed in glimmering golds and ivory silk - watching from a rock higher than most.

"Please, my friends, we are as you are," Solas says and raises his hands high in mock surrender, his staff also gripped in one hand. "I am a mage, and my friend here is my companion. She also has magic. We came in hopes to find kindred amongst you."

But his words are inspiring little effect; instead, armored mercenaries begin to flank around us while the mages draw back.

"Solas," I whisper to him in a low hiss. "It doesn't seem to be working."

"I see," Solas is quick to say back. "Patience. We can try and-"

"Where are the guards?" an armored mercenary interrupts. "They should've stopped you!"

"They let us pass," I say.

Instead, more weapons glint in the light, drawn from sheathes and the air chills, thick with tension. "You  _lie_."

Like a bow pulled taut - like a serpent striking out - Solas reacts. He weaves forward and away, magic crackling across his staff before ricocheting through the air. It snaps quickly into the mage dressed in gold and ivory fineries, slamming them into the stone outcrops at the edges of the cave.

And behind us, the icy barrier shutters and falls in a storm of magical flakes, our last companions storming in as a cry rattles through the mercenaries. With a lunge, I catch a sword between my daggers, wrenching a mercenary away from attacking Solas.

It ends quickly after that... with more lifeless bodies upon the ground than I hoped for. Why didn't the mages just surrender? Did they think we were going to take them back to their Circles, or kill them? I would've preferred them come and allow us to shelter them.

Such a waste.

With so much done in such a little day, the sun draws down past the snow-capped mountains in the distance. Lyrius's connection - the horse master named Dennis - owns a farm just past the claimed faction camps.

"He's given us a cabin for the night," Lyrius says, sharp teeth bright in his smile. "And in the morning, he will be happy to join us and supply the Inquisition with several horses."

"Just like that?" I ask. But honestly, I'd love to get out of these armor plates and rest my head upon a pillow. Even one filled with just straw.

"Yes, just like that." Lyrius gives a nod and saunters off to Cassandra's side, the two warriors deep in chatter as they walk across the pathways between here and several farmhouses. And,  _oh_.

"Is the Seeker  _blushing_?" Varric muses between Solas and I.

Even in the dimming light, there is a redness to Cassandra's cheeks that is new, joined by a light-hearted smile.

Varric laughs. "Damn, I didn't know Wolfsbane was as much as a flirt as his sister."

"Some are just born with it," I sneer. "Like those who can dance and those that cannot."

"Indeed," Solas says, hands pressed at his back.

"Chuckles! Do you know how to dance?" A pause.

There's an unusual, mischievous twinkle in the elven mage's eyes. "You'd be surprised, Master Tethras."

* * *

 

With several horses now in our command, and each of my companions and myself with our own specific mounts, Haven is our next stop. I wish more could be done for Rhaena, but there was still no sign of her through our several days of travel. The waves likely took her far below.

Which means there is only one survivor left of the Breach.

“Herald.” Cassandra draws my attention from on top of her horse, Knight. She guides the silver stallion up to my mount’s side – a massive draft horse, black as the deepest seas, and called Thunderback. “You seem lost in thought. Is everything alright?” she asks.

I straighten my shoulders and shift myself in Thunder’s saddle, stressing the kinks from my spine. “Yes, a little.”

“May I ask what is bothering you?” Cassandra asks. “Is it the Crossroads? The clerics and what Mother Giselle spoke to you about?”

But I only shake my head. “Actually, I was thinking about Rhaena.”

“Do you think she yet lives?”

“I want to believe so, but we’ve seen little evidence of it. How can I know she’s alive if our scouts can’t find her on the beaches, or hear word of a white-haired elf washing up somewhere? How can I think she survived when Solas cannot even find her in the Fade?”

Cassandra’s lips press thinly together. “Herald, do you believe in Andraste and the Maker?”

“What does that have to do with Rhaena?” I ask, with narrowed eyes.

“If you believe in any higher power, like the Maker, you must believe he is doing everything for a _reason_ ,” she clarifies. “That you were sent by Andraste, and Rhaena has a purpose. Why else would she be able to survive the Breach alongside you? The Maker wouldn’t put her through what she’s going through if he didn’t think she could handle it.”

“Even if that’s true, even if she is alive, the Maker has a funny way of trying to protect her.”

Cassandra’s lips twitch. “Or maybe he’s trying to challenge her, trying to get her to _learn_.”

I’m not going to argue with her on this; any higher power, any being that watches and can control the turn of events, should understand this isn’t the way to help a mageling learn. In fact, it’s not how to help anyone learn.

And Haven itself, after returning our horses to their new stables, erupts with anger and voices shouting above the clamor of refugees and servants going back their days. All of it in front of the Chantry.

“Your kind killed the Most Holy!” On one side, a group of five or six templars; newly recruited ones from the looks of them – fresh-faced, bitter, and still clad in shining armor. But on the other side, more mages stand at the ready, muscles taught and fingers gripping at their staves like a fight is brewing at the surface.

“Lies – your kind let her die!” A mage retorts angrily.

The templar reaches for his blade. “Shut your mouth, mage-”

But Cullen jumps between both of the gathered groups, authority echoing his voice and silencing the bitterness and anger so palpable in the air. “Enough!”

“K-Knight Captain,” the templar blinks and sheathes his blade.

“That is not my title. We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition!” Cullen chastises.

He’s a good Commander, a powerful member of my advisors, and an ally I’m glad we have with us. A good friend. But too shy, too… vanilla for my own lingering tastes.

“And what does that mean, exactly?” Between us all, Chancellor Roderick heckles – standing in my shadow and in the light in front of Cullen.

“Back already, Chancellor? Haven’t you done enough?” Cullen asks.

“I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘herald’ will restore order as you’ve promised.”

“Of course you are,” Cullen scowls, but his voice booms through the crisp winter air. “Back to your duties, all of you!"

Many of the gathered either flinch or scatter, fleeing back to the tavern or cabins of safety. Many of the templars scowl but, wordlessly, march back through the tiny town and past its gates. Mages do much the same, all huddled close, their fingers tightened around their staves.

"Herald, it is good to see you," Cullen addresses, eagerly turning away from Chancellor Roderick and instead meeting my eyes with an unusual warming grin. "Leliana and Josephine await you inside. I did not see the elven mage girl with you when you returned. Is everything alright?"

I cannot return his smile; instead, sullen is all I feel. "She didn't make it," is all I say.

The Commander fidgets, his grin fading, as does the color in his face. "I am sorry to hear that, Herald."

"You and me both, Commander. You and me both."

* * *

 

My advisors gather around our table, our board pieces spread across the map like it's a game of chess. Pieces of black and pieces of white placed here and there, and Leliana nudges a raven-carved statuette at the bordered stamp for Val Royeaux.

“Having the Herald address the clerics is not a terrible idea,” Josephine states.

“You can’t be serious,” Cullen scoffs with a shake of his head, his fingers incessantly tapping against the wooden rounds of the war table.

“Mother Giselle isn’t wrong; at the moment, the Chantry’s only strength is that they are united in opinion.”

Leliana cuts in next, “And we should ignore the danger to the Herald?”

“Let’s ask her,” Josephine asks, and those beautiful golden eyes find my own.

Yet, I roll my shoulders, pressing a finger into my left palm in an attempt to ease a lingering ache within my mark. “It might not help or solve our problems,” I say.

“I agree.” Cullen nods. “It just lends credence to the idea that we should care what the Chantry says.”

Cassandra steps forward. “I will go with her. Mother Giselle said she could provide names? Use them.”

“But why?” Leliana asks. “This is nothing but a-”

“What choice do we have, Leliana? Right now we can’t approach anyone for help with the Breach.” Cassandra, one last time, glances to Cullen. “Use what influence we have to call the clerics together. Once they are ready, we will see this through.”


	12. Rhaena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the foreshadowing in Chapter 10 and 11 has finally led to this!
> 
> Be ready, folks! This chapter is going to start to gear us up for a very big plot line and plot twist. >:3

Hitting the water is like every bone in my body shatters, and salty water slips past my lips while I gasp out in shock. I choke on the sea, my body whipped in currents, as I try to fight and break to the surface.

It  _hurts_. My lungs burn, water stings in my nose and throat, and  _air. I need air_.

The water’s tainted with the tinge of copper red as I feel myself twist and yank. I scramble out and try to grip to  _something_.

Fingers scrape against rock and shattered wood until suddenly my back cracks up against an echoing surface. There’s pressure on my shoulders, grasping hands, and I’m pulled up into daylight. I choke out water and gasp in air for burning lungs.

“Oh, Maker.” Someone hisses out, and I feel hands on my shoulder, pressing around the broken rod of an arrow.

A bubbling cry of pain rushes past my lips and I cough up salty blood.

“ _Someone get the Grand Enchanter, now!_ ” One yells and slowly I can make out shapes in the light – colors, bright flowing cloaks and hair of too many hues. But I cannot see faces, or eyes.

I attempt to raise and cough past my clogged, raw throat. “Where-”

“Do not speak, child,” someone tries to soothe.

There are hands on my shoulder and on my lower back, but I feel my blood warm on wooden planks beneath me.

There’s a violent rush of too many feet and startled gasps. “Dear Maker, is she alive?” someone asks.

 “She’s bleeding heavily.” another says.

Warm hands press into my shoulder and there’s a heat that seeps beneath my soaked, bloody clothes into the meat of my breast, and then suddenly the arrow is  _ripped_  free. I cry out but there are coaxing shushes of voices, and soon the press of magic that tingles and stitches deep.

A vial of something bitter and metallic is pressed to my lips but I cough.

“Shush, da’len, drink.” The familiar elven term sends a chill through my limbs as I blink wide. Reality focuses, but I’m not staring up into the calculating eyes of the dreaded wolf, but an aged man with grayed hair and pale yellow eyes. His ears are pointed – an elven man – of course, but…

The bitter drink slips past my lips and is too quick to warm my body from the chills of salty water and blood that soaked me through to the bone. There are two others pressed close to me, one with their hands hovering over my shoulder, their fingers glowing a golden hue, and the other by my back with their magic a glimmer of pink.

There’s an elven woman, with cropped black hair, at my side, wearing a beautiful robe that puts those of others’ to shame. Her ears flick to attention as I try to sit up against her touch.

“No,” she instructs and her green eyes snap to find my own. “Let us heal you.”

“Where am I?” I rasp out.

She narrows her eyes and mouth twitches when I don’t listen. “Redcliffe,” she says.

“I…” I blink wide.

 _Redcliffe_?

But how? I don’t remember even recognize the area, or the steep cliffs and blood soaking the fields.

“Were you attacked?” Someone asks, and then there’s a hand pressed against my shoulder blades to help support as I sit up.

“Yes.”

“You’re a mage,” the woman at my side says.

I fiddle lightly, my fingers scraping against wet wood underneath my body. “Y-yes.”

“You were attacked by templars then,” someone guesses, and the murmur of voices grows. But I don’t say a word, letting them think what they wish.

“You are strong, child,” the woman at my side says, but a shudder runs through me. My body, where the arrow pierced, is now reddened and scarred. “But you are lucky to be alive. You’ll need new clothes.” She waves a hand toward one of the gathered. “Fetch her some robes and furs to dry and change into.”

The man bows. “At once, Grand Enchanter.” He disappears in a flurry, but my eyes snap wide.

 “G-grand Enchanter?” I ask.

The woman smiles gently and bows her head. “I am Grand Enchanter Fiona, yes,” she says. “You’ll be safe now, dear.”

Dread fills my bones with lead. She’s wrong; I  _won’t_  be safe here. Not with that Tevinter man Alexius and his damned  _time magic_.  _No_ , this is the  _worst_  place for me to be.

“ _Safe_?” The word falls from my lips like a cracked sob.

A towel’s wrapped around my shoulders, but it does little to warm the chill in my bones.

Grand Enchanter Fiona only grins. “Yes, we take care of our own here.”

My throat’s too raw. “I-” I pull myself to my feet, slipping on bloody and watered down planks before I catch myself.

Many of the people, mages all probably, either stagger back a step in surprise or jump forward with a sense of urgency. But it’s the Grand Enchanter who speaks, “Child, are you-?”

I look to her, my voice a low whisper for only her to barely hear. “Tell me, did you do it? Did you make a deal with that mon-”

“Fiona, my dear.” The interruption all but answers my question. The coy ice that fills the northerner’s accent is one I recognize and freezes me still. Though I fear Solas most of all, Alexius is a close second, especially here and now. “Who is this… wet…? Oh, my dear girl, what happened to you?”

I turn slowly and my eyes catch the sneer painted across this aged Tevinter’s face. His garments are Venatori, and crimson in hue and stitch. As his smirk widens, his wrinkles deepen, and there’s  _something_  in his eyes that causes my heart to skip a beat.

At his side, another familiar sight – with darker skin, sunken eyes, and golden Venatori attire. Felix, Alexius’s son.

“You look positively  _miserable_ , all taut skin and bare bones,” he tuts gently as his eyes raze me up and down. “Why has this poor girl not been given any clothing? Fiona?”

“Someone is fetching her new clothes as we speak, Magister Alexius,” Fiona responds.

“I surely hope so. I cannot condone treating fellow mages with such… less desirable conditions.” He plays the game well, he hampers himself to be a gentle soul, but I know what kind of a  _serpent_  lies beneath.

The man from before rushes down a set of steps with robes and furs in hand. “Grand Enchanter, I have-”

“Ah, good.” Alexius pulls the clothing quickly from the man’s startled hands and offers them forward to me. “Here you go, child. Some new attire to replace your waterlogged rags.” He offers a faux smile.

Best not let him see that I don’t trust him; so, I reach forward with a shiver and take the clothing.

That pulls a purr from his lips. “Good, now we will have to find you a place to stay while you remain with us.”

Remain? No, no, I want to  _leave_.

“Magister Alexius?” An elderly, lyrical voice pulls at his attention and my own. An elderly elven man with grayed hair stands at our back. “I would like to offer my services then. I have plenty of space in my home. I am happy to give her a place to rest and eat.”

“Wonderful,” Alexius says. “Then I will task you with bringing her to your home and making sure she is well fed. And, child?” My eyes train on his, and his lips curl upwards into a smirk. “I hope to talk with you soon, when you are adequately fed and rested.”

 _No_ , I will be long gone before that happens. I will not allow him to enslave me like he plans with these other mages. I am meant to be free.

All of us are meant to be free.

 _We will not be bound in shackles any longer_.

* * *

 

His name is Eldhru.

I follow him hurriedly away from the gathering of mages and Vints, even as my soaked through clothing clings heavily and slows my movements. I’d rather not remain in the presence of that Venatori magister longer than I have to.

Eldhru is steady in his guide, weaving past several large houses. His small cabin lies to the left of the Redcliffe tavern. I thought maybe it’d be a tiny thing, but it’s bathed in sun with a tree settled in its front garden covered in cherry-colored flowers. Gated inside a little pen are several hens, their feathers iridescent blacks and golds. They cluck in greeting as I look their way. And behind them, locked behind another gate, is a beautiful garden of high tomato plants, cabbages, lettuce, herbs, and other fruits and veggies.

“Welcome, da’len,” Eldhru speaks, and my stare flicks to his. He steadies his front door open and I’m quick to hurry inside, despite the scars in my shoulder and back still tugging at my muscles and nerves with aches and pains.

His home is warm, draped with fabrics that remind me of Dalish aravels, and a steady fire brimming in a den and small kitchen, bordered by two adjacent rooms.

The door closes behind us, and Eldhru hurries over to the den. “Dearest gods,” he breathes gently. “Please pardon my mess, da’len. It is not often I have visitors anymore.”

Mess? What mess? It’s oddly beautiful, how the light of wisps and flames dance off the decorations adorning the walls, and every item seems to have its own place. “Your home is beautiful, Eldhru. I do not see even the slightest hint of a mess.”

The elder smiles, with a rush of heat to wrinkled cheeks. “Ma serannas, da’len.” Then he pauses. “Are you familiar with the elven tongue? I never thought to have asked, forgive me.”

“Vin,” I say.  _Yes_. “But only a little, and you have no need to apologize. It should be I who… apologizes to you.”

He furrows his brows. “Why do you think that, da’len?”

“I’m putting you out,” I say and shrug. “I mean, I could’ve probably rented a room at the tavern.”

“You have coin, da’len?” he asks.

“Yes, I” – I pat at my hip, but freeze when I do not feel the touch of nugskin or the clank of coins – “I should have some. I ha-had a whole pouch.” I glance to my side, but that is gone. My silvers and bronze bits  _gone_. But where? How? Did the pouch drop in the water, or – god, I don’t know. “Or… I did. I…”

“Do not worry yourself, little one,” Eldhru says before he hoists a cauldron of water over the fireplace. “I would not have one of my own spend coin when she needs but a little helping hand. You look a ghoul, da’len. When was the last time you’ve eaten?”

I glance at the cold, wet garments that hang off my body, the thinness of my shoulders that show, and I can only imagine how sunken or bloody my face must seem, especially after the templar’s smite and the bandit throwing me from a cliff.

“I do not remember,” I say.

Eldhru smiles and waves a hand gently. “Then do not worry yourself, child. Here, let me draw you a bath.”

“That” – I blink in surprise and struggle with words, unable to find any for several moments – “you don’t need…  _hahren_ , please, you don’t have to do that.”

“Please, allow me,” Eldhru smiles as he retrieves an empty cauldron. “It’s wonderful to have some company again.” He gestures with his hand toward the room on my right, and I follow him – despite water dripping from my clothing and wetting his floor.

He presses through – not quite as expansive as the den, but in one shadowy corner is an empty stone bath and, at its other side and bordered by two small windows, is a cot. A little stuffed halla sits, dusty, upon the pillows. Whose room was this?

“You may stay for as long as you need, and this’ll be your room,” Eldhru says. I watch his eyes sweep over the walls once, settling on the stuffed halla, before he clears his throat and ducks back. “Let me fetch you some water for your bath.”

“Eldhru – hahren, whose room was this?” I ask, turning to him.

He freezes and I see his fingers curl around the cauldron and bucket. “It once belonged to my daughter, Syla.”

 _Daughter_? I thought he only had a wife.

“Named for Sylaise?” I ask.

And he smiles, shoulders straightening with pride. “Yes,” he says, but there’s a flash of pain that sparks in his eyes before he sags.

I tilt my head. “What happened… to her, if I may ask?”

His lips twitch. “She’s gone from me. My wife joined her at Falon’Din’s side a few years ago. I hope, one day, I will be given the honor to join them.” He looks to the empty cauldron and bucket. “Let me get some water for you.”

I do not say a word as he fills the bath with water from his small well, and then fetches the cauldron of what he boiled over his fireplace. He adds that to the chilled water and a steady steam soon wafts from the stone bath. Before I have a chance to strip, Eldhru returns with a bowl filled with soft cherry-colored flowers and places it on a carved chair.

“I do not have much in the way of shampoos or fancy scents, but these petals smell of spring. If you would like to add them to your bath, feel free.” With a smile, Eldhru ducks away and closes the door.

A heavy hand of guilt settles over my heart, of taking this lonely man’s hospitality. But he offered; or maybe I should just slip out the window and  _run_.

 _No_. Not this time.

I throw in two handfuls of the cherry petals and watch them dance across the surface of the water before I strip clean of drenched clothes. The bath is  _warm_  and it pulls a pleased sigh from my lips as I settle back. The scent of the petals stirs a memory of blossoming trees and May flowers, of cherry blossoms and red maple, of purple magnolias and orange marigolds.

I reach for another handful and deposit it into the water before I begin to rub my skin raw, free from caked blood, sweat, and dirt. I rinse the soot that still clings from my waves of hair before finally the locks of silver  _shine_.

The scents and sounds, clucking hens and the swaying song of tree branches from beyond the windows, allow me to somehow relax in the water. Even as it grows colder, I hum gently and let my head loll against the edge of the sanded down stone.

But only when I hear Eldhru’s voice muffled through the door do I stir. “Da’len, are you hungry? I have prepared a meal.”

At his words, my stomach knots, and my teeth snap together. Not only my stomach aches but my throat’s raw and dry and burning for  _something_. Eldhru – this lonely widow - is offering a meal to me, a stranger, but yet… yet I feel…

It’s familiar to when I played Wicked Grace with Varric and Solas. At ease, but ever so on guard.

“I will be there in a few minutes, Eldhru. Thank you,” I say, and languidly pull myself from the water. There’s a towel of fur and cloth near the bowl of petals and I dry myself. But the scent of spring is still heavy against my skin. It’s better than smelling of sweat and blood, that’s for certain.

The offered robes sit in a neat pile on the bed cot. I slip on the breast bands, the small clothes, and then the robes crafted with the creamy fur of fennec foxes, weaved cotton and lambswool. My hair still hangs damp, but not drenched.

At long last, when I open the door, I’m hit by the scent of cooking foods, of meats and fish. The small table in the den is made with two settings as well as bowls of cut fruits and boiled vegetables. Eldhru is busy at the fire and flips a few pieces of fish to a plate before he settles them on the table as well.

Glancing my way, he smiles. “Come, da’len, sit. Eat whatever you’d like.”

I settle myself in one of the chairs while Eldhru sits across from mine. The fish on the table, still fresh with skin and bone, smell of salt and mixed herbs.

I wet my lips, but do not take any offered foot – not yet. My fingers curl against the table. “Eldhru, forgive me,” I begin. “You offered me a place to rest, eat, and bathe, but I have not told you my name. I am Rhaena.”

Eldhru nods his head. “A pleasure, young Rhaena.” He leans forward and, with a flick of eating ware, pushes the bigger fish to my setting. “Here, this one should have more meat. You look to need it.”

But, despite the angry knot twisting in my belly, I turn to glance over the decorations and the aravel fabrics hanging from the walls. “Eldhru, are you Dalish?” I ask. He stills, but I continue. “You don’t have the tattoos of one, but you speak some elvish words and have Dalish-like decorations upon your walls.”

“I am not, no,” Eldhru says. “My wife was. Senna. She taught me some words, she taught me the language of our heart, and she left her clan to grow old with me and raise our daughter together.” His lips twitch downward into a frown.

“Ir abelas. I am sorry,” I whisper. A pause as I raise a fork to raze across the skin of the fish. “I understand what it is like to lose family and your heart. I… my family is gone too. My father, mother, and brother senselessly taken from me.”

Eldhru’s eyes widen. “Ir abelas, da’len. Do they walk at Falon’Din’s side too?”

“I… do not know. All I know is that they are gone, unable for me to hold onto except in my heart.”

“Do you have no one else? No man of your own? Surely some have tried to court you. You  _are_  a beautiful woman.”

I sigh. “I tend to keep to myself. If some have tried, I am not aware. I’m blind to that sort of affection. I see more of the trouble someone could cause to me than the good they can give me.”

“Ah. It sounds like your eyes are not open.”

“But, my eyes  _are_  open,” I retort.

“For certain things, da’len,” Eldhru tuts. “But even I can see your eyes are only focused on the evil and dread in this world, not the good and greatness of what it could offer you. You tense when you hear an unfamiliar voice, you do not trust those who have wished to only help you. You pulled from the Grand Enchanter’s grasp like you didn’t wish to be healed.”

I hang my head in silence.

Eldhru shakes his head. “I am not attempting to scold you, da’len. Quite the opposite. I want you to  _understand_. You are still young; I have had years in this world to see the pain it brings, but the beauty and grace it bestows twofold. Senna and Syla helped me to see, so if I can even offer a little advice to you, then I shall.”

* * *

 

After my belly warms with the meal, sleep comes too quickly. Eldhru turns to clean the dishes, but I stick around to help him, drying what I can and putting them in their appropriate places. After that, he calms the fire, which casts the home in a blanket of the night’s light, and retires to his room. And I to mine.

As my head hits the pillow, the Fade pulls me into dreams. I expect there to be nightmares, to be haunted by demons, but…

Instead, a field of too green grass peels over sloping hills and, in the distance, a forest of ancient oaks dressed in rainbows of leaves raises high. There are deer, no –  _halla_  – loping across the field, bleating to each other excitedly. A few cast intelligent, dark eyes toward me, but I stiffen when one slowly canters forward with grace.

It snorts and nudges at my hand too urgently, sniffing at my fingers and palm like something is meant to be there. Something sweet and enjoyable, maybe.

“I have no treats,” I say.

The halla only snorts and the shimmers of green light catch its fur in silver wisps. Its velvet antlers weave, but the halla leans forward and presses the edge of its head to my chest.

I blink. “What… is it that you  _want_?” I ask.

The halla paws at the ground, but rears around only to join its fellows in a joyous canter across the slopes of green pasture.

Odd.

 _Beautiful_ , but odd.

Familiar magic plucks at my skin, and something scrapes against the corners of my mind. A dangerous feeling, like someone’s clawing for entrance – but not a demon. No, far from it. Another person. My heart almost aches for it, to speak, to see someone else in this expansive, malleable place.

I allow my armored walls to fall, and then there’s  _someone_  behind me. I can feel the presence whisk into existence as soon as my resistance lowers just enough. I turn, expecting to see Solas there but…

It is _him_ , but not.

This visage of him stands high, taller than I remember, clad in shining armor and dark furs. His hands are clasped behind his back, and a black wolf’s pelt is strapped to the shining plates of elven armor. Tight, russet dreads fall past his shoulders, and the glimmer of silver  _earrings_  catches in the light. But his face is obscured by a heavy snarling headdress with  _six_  crimson eyes that focus on me like they are his real eyes hidden in the face of a watching wolf. The only hint I see of him past the headdress is the curve of his jaw and chin, and the thin line of his lips.

“Oh,” slips from me as I take a step back.

The Dread Wolf stands high, stoic, barely moving.

“You were” – I wet my lips – “not who I was expecting.”

“Who were you expecting, child?” A voice rumbles from this imposing image of a god, his voice more a guttural growl than the smooth, lyrical tone I know of Solas’s.

“Certainly not the Dread Wolf,” I say. But… that’s not a complete lie. I just expected him in a different skin.

“And yet,” he rumbles. “You do not curse and run from me in fear. Why is that?”

“I do not believe the Dalish legends.”

The six eyes in the headdress blink and I see the edges of his lips curl into a toothy smirk. “You’re a curious thing, aren’t you?”

“Excuse me?”

The Dread Wolf takes a calculated, predatory step forward. “Quite curious indeed.”

I close my eyes, and it’s odd I can feel him so close, so real. Magic swims around him, plucking at my skin experimentally, twisting with the invisible wisps of my own. He’s really here. “You’re not a spirit or a figment,” I speak.

“Correct.”

“Then why are you here?”

The Dread Wolf raises a hand tipped with dark, black claws. “A light,” he murmurs. “You  _shine_. An odd little one like you, brighter than most of the people. Why is that, _Rhaena_?”

“You know my name.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

His eyes gleam. “You let me in. Your name is written across you like the magic that curls readily in your heart. Anyone with the slightest grasp of the Fade can feel that magic, but me? I can taste it with every breath while I’m near.”

“Do spirits and demons see the same thing when they’re near?”

“Quite possibly,” the Dread Wolf purrs. “But I can help with that.”

“How?”

“I can keep them away.”

“My friend has already offered to help me fend them off.”

“But is your friend here? Have they fought the Fade to find you?”

Yes, he stands before me. “No,” I say instead. “I doubt he even knows I’m alive.”

“Would you like him to know?” The Dread Wolf sneers wide, flashing a mouthful of canines. A rumble vibrates up through him, but he leans forward and inhales. The brush of hair and fur tickles against the side of my neck, and the breath of his words sends a fearful shutter through me, “You smell of overturned dirt, fall maple, and _ash_.”

Is this his way of saying  _the Dread Wolf has caught my scent_?

He pulls back and blinks too many eyes. “Is your friend a dreamer? I can send him a message, or lead him to you. Would you like that?”

I press my hands to my chest and the echo of my racing heart spurs my breathing to a rush. I try and breathe deeply, despite the scent of fire, blood, and charred flesh on the air. “What would you ask in return?”

A sharp canine glints in the light. “A favor.”

A favor, then? Something to call me on at a later date? It’s a clever idea, strategy. He could ask anything of me, unless… “Only on several conditions,” I barter. “You cannot ask me to harm myself, or let you in.”

“Let me in?”

“Possession.” I roll my shoulders as I see the Dread Wolf sneer. “Demonic possession. I’m covering all my bases here, and I want to be _sure_ you’re not a demon just looking to take my body.”

“Smart girl,” he purrs and a shutter runs through me, the sneer and words all too familiar and threatening; like the nightmare that took his face once before.

Swallowing, I continue, “A-and you cannot ask me to harm anyone or anything. Those are my terms.”

The Dread Wolf stands stoically, waiting. The Fade stretches around us, deep – encompassing. Moments – that feel like hours – pass by, unblinking crimson eyes following every twitch that wracks through my limbs and my own tracing the sharp lines of Elvhen armor, claws dipped in black, and long braids tightened with clasps of gold and silver.

Different from Solas, but – then again – not so different. Like a façade, a mask. He wears one but disguises as the other. In this never-ending game of chess, he’ll always be two steps ahead of the rest.

But finally, a wicked grin peels the frown from his face. A smirk that twists my gut and sets ice in my veins. “ _Done_.” His voice trembles through the Fade and magic ribbons out, weaving around my arms like tethers – binds – but familiar, comforting in an odd sort of way. Like wisps of green, the eerie trails of aura clasp and crackle along with the nervous red energy heavy along my arms.

“Your friend will find you, but I cannot promise you when,” he says. “After he does, I will come for that favor. Agreed?”

A pause, but the word flows easily from my lips, “Agreed.”

“Good.” And he leans in, the fur along the headdress warm and soft against my cheek while clawed fingers tighten slowly around the bridge of my shoulders. Breath hot against the lobe of my ear, the Dread Wolf purrs, “Sleep well, Rhaena.”

The Fade curls tightly, like some dreadful knot, and suddenly it fractures – an explosion of bloody shards.

 I jolt upright, and a cold sweat drips down my forehead as I stare to the walls of Syla’s room. The sounds of chirping crickets is heavy outside my window, but my heart aches still. I’m back in the waking world, but I press a hand to my lips and bite back a sob.


	13. Khammana

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to start jumping on a weekly schedule here. As much as I love giving you guys two to three chapters a week, sometimes it does get hard to fit more writing in my schedule, more than I already have. But! With that said, I do have the next few chapters mostly written so we'll have a nice queue of chapters ready to keep us all on our toes. ;)
> 
> Also, heads up, my cancer treatment starts next week. I may, or may not, have more time to do things, but as of right now, I have no idea what to expect. Thanks for understanding!

I’ve never been to one of Orlais’s capital cities, but now I can say that I have. Val Royeaux is a palace of glittering murals, sculpted fountains of golden lions, and mansions that reach toward the sun casting brilliant light overhead. The scent of the sea and freshly made cakes swim on the wind, heavy on the twisting of our stomachs, as we dismount from our horses near the city’s outer limit stables.

“Herald, we’d be honored to care for your horses,” one of the stable hands says with a thick Orlesian accent. My mount, nicknamed Thunderback by Dennis – the Inquisition’s new horse master - snorts roughly in the man’s hair. Thunderback is a massive beast; thick muscle and several hands taller than the other horses that Dennis had supplied us with. He said Thunder had a temper and was picky about riders, but I didn’t understand that; Thunder has only ever been easy under my touch, or maybe he only liked to have Qunari riding on him?

If so, what an odd horse.

“Thank you,” I deposit enough coin into the man’s hand for him to care for the four of our horses. Including Thunder, there’s Cassandra’s Knight, Varric’s Bloom, and Solas’s Dhaveira, and each go easily enough.

Hopefully the rest of our trip remains as easy as dropping our horses off has, but as we continue down Val Royeaux’s main city bridge, crafted from glittering stone formed into identical path stones, a few of Orlesian’s typical patrons cast masked glances our way. One – a woman, I think – startles back a step with a scream.

“Just a guess, Seeker,” Varric pipes up, “but I think they all know who we are.”

“Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.” Cassandra quips.

But as we reach the gates, a person, clad in Inquisition garments and the sigil, speeds to a stop in front of us. Their wide eyes glance to Cassandra, then up to me, and they steady their rushed breath.

“My Lady Herald.” The scout bows her head and lowers herself to kneel. I fight the urge to scowl and pull them to their feet. I do not like being worshipped like the religious figure they believe me to be. All I wish to do is restore order and peace.

“You’re one of Leliana’s people.” Cassandra gestures to the scout who bows at the knee and lowers their head. “What have you found?”

“The Chantry mothers away you, but… so do a great many templars,” the scout explains.

Cassandra blinks. “There are templars here?”

“People seem to think the templars will protect them from… from the Inquisition.” The scout nods. “They’re gathering on the other side of the market. I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you.”

“Only one thing to do then.” The Seeker’s lips curl downward into a scowl. “They wish to protect the people?  _From us_?”

I steady a hand on the warrior’s shoulder. “We knew there would be some kind of reaction, Cassandra.”

“But I didn’t expect the templars to make an appearance.”

“I don’t think any of us were expecting that.”

The scout rises from their bow. “The people may just be assuming what the templars will do,” they say. “I’ve heard of no concentrate plans.”

“You think the Order’s returned to the fold, maybe?” Varric suggests. “To deal with us upstarts?”

But Cassandra shakes her head, and I let my hand drop from her shoulder as she speaks, “I know Lord Seeker Lucius. I can’t imagine him coming to the Chantry’s defense, not after all that’s occurred.” She pauses and glances to the scout. “Return to Haven. Someone will need to inform them if we are… delayed.”

The scout bows. “As you say, my Lady.”

Off the scout rushes, past us and across the shimmering bridge of smoothed down gemstone. But we press forward, past the ogling eyes of curious shopkeepers, and patrons who whisper near every stall. But the greatest commotion, past a circular garden of golden lions and blue-bordered shops, outcries of fear and anger spur on too many retaliating voices.

“Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!” A Chantry sister steps along a platform hoisted against the way to the city’s docks. Beside her, a templar who stands at attention. But his dark eyes flash to meet mine before he focuses back on the speaking sister as she sneers toward us, “Together we mourn our Divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderer. Well, wonder no more!”

Voices of fear and rage rivet from deep whispers to curses and twisting shouts.

“Behold” – the Chantry sister levels her finger toward me – “the so-called Herald of Andraste. Claiming to rise where our beloved fell. We say this is a false prophet! A wicked Qunari spy sent to subvert the Maker’s word!”

Does she think me of the Qun? Does she think me  _Ben-Hassrath_?

I hold my stance, tight shoulders and straightened spine, allowing my lips to press thin. “You say I am the enemy,” I begin, though I fight to suppress any venom from my voice. “The Breach in the sky is our  _true_ enemy. We must unite to stop it.”

“It’s true,” Cassandra adds in. “The Inquisition seeks only to end this madness before it is too late.”

My ears flick as heavy armored boots press forward. But the Chantry sister before us scowls. “It is already too late.” She gestures toward the approaching sounds of heavy plated armor.

Warriors, dressed in templar gear and feathered helms, rise up the platform’s steps. But these templars are different in stature and appearance than any of the templars back in Haven. The feathers in the helms of Cullen’s templars are shades of blue, but the feathers of these templars are crimson  _red_.

The gathered crowd murmurs their shock as the templars are permitted passage. “The templars have returned to the Chantry,” she cries out. “They will face this ‘Inquisition,’ and the people will be safe once more.”

A templar strikes out, and a crack rings through the air. People stiffen and gasp as the Chantry sister collapses to the ground in a crumbled heap.

But the templars barely flinch.

One of them, an aged man with grayed hair and even grayer eyes, presses himself to the side of the dark-skinned templar who remained to the sister’s side. The man sneers and whispers, but just loud enough for my ears to twitch. “Still yourself,” he says. “She is beneath us.”

I press forward and scowl upward to this man. “What’s the meaning of this?”

The templar’s icy gaze narrows on my own and in his eyes is an odd glimmer. “Her claim to ‘authority’ is an insult,” he spits. “Much like your own.”

“Lord Seeker Lucius,” Cassandra speaks up. So, not a templar then. A Seeker, like her. But why is he dressed like these red-feathered templars? I thought Cassandra said this man had sense. “It’s imperative that we speak with-”

“You will not address me,” Seeker Lucius interrupts. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be  _ashamed_.”

The templars come to stand at his side, some with hands on the hilts of their weapons and others tensed like bows pulled taut.

The Lord Seeker sneers. “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages.  _You_  are the ones who have failed. You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear. If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

Who does this man think he is? He’s taking advantage of the anger and fear boiling in the hearts of many; he’s taking advantage of the withered state of the Chantry and the wars plaguing the lands in both Orlais  _and_  Ferelden? Can’t he see what he’s doing is nonsense and there needs to be a way for us to put down our weapons and  _work together_  to deal with the real issue.

“What we truly need is an alliance that will seal the Breach,” I retort and don’t allow my voice to tremble.

“Oh, the Breach is indeed a threat,” Seeker Lucius growls. “But you certainly have no power to do anything about it.”

“But Lord Seeker…” A templar comes to his side, the same templar who had stood with the Chantry sister. “What if she was really sent by the Maker? What if-?”

“You are called to a higher purpose,” another interrupts. “Do not question.”

“ _I_ will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void,” Seeker Lucius says. “ _We_ deserve recognition. Independence! You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

With a heavy stomp of boots, the red-feathered templars follow at the Lord Seeker’s side, barely casting a glance back. Patrons and shopkeepers jump out of their path, but a few are hit and thrown to the ground when they do not rear out of the way.

Varric presses close and muses, “Charming fellow, isn’t he?”

“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?” Cassandra blinks in shock.

“Do you know him very well?” I ask.

“He took over the Seekers of Truth two years ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death,” she explains. “He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

That’s definitely not the man we just met. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be getting the templars to help us after all.”

“I wouldn’t write them off so quickly. There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become. Either way, we should finish our business here as quick as possible and then return to Haven to inform the others.”

* * *

 

Josephine had already secured two rooms at one of Val Royeaux’s esteemed hotels, apparently  _extremely_  expensive, from the fountain of golden lions and caprice coins in its front garden. Our rooms look out over the city and the crystal harbor heavy with sails and banners from many different nations and capitals across Thedas. One room is for Solas and Varric, the other for Cassandra and me. Though we are only staying the one night, there are whispers abound through the hotel speaking of us, and me – begrudgingly – the Herald of Andraste.

Some of the servants squeal the moment they catch a glimpse of my horns and bolt. Well.

But one man, dressed in fine Orlesian wares, waits for us near the main gathering hall to the hotel. He catches our eye and stands to attention.

“Are you the Herald of Andraste, my Lady?” he asks, and his stare grazes over the curl of my horns with a shudder. In his hand, a parchment stamped with a bright blue butterfly that shimmers like lyrium.

“I am.”

The man extends the rolled parchment and I take it, unrolling to reveal the script of a woman’s hand. “Madame De Fer, Grand Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais, would be pleased if you could attend the gathering tonight at the salon of Duke Bastien de Ghislain,” he explains.

“Grand Enchanter to the Imperial Court of Orlais?”

“Yes. The gathering begins tonight at dusk. You may… bring a guest” – he glances to my companions and his lips twitch – “if you so desire. But the Grand Enchanter would love a chance to speak to you about the Inquisition.”

“It sounds like it could be worth a visit,” Cassandra says.

And Varric smirks. “Or an utter waste of time, who knows?”

Cassandra groans in disgust.

“Thank you.” I nod my head lowly to the messenger. “I will see what I can do about being in attendance to the gathering.”

The messenger bows gently and, without another word, turns and disappears into the market. But behind us, a feminine voice causes us to still and turn. “If I might have a moment of your time?”

An elven woman, with neatly cropped black hair and well-cut robes stands in the golden light of overhead chandeliers. Her hands hang gently at her sides and Cassandra blinks. A flash of recognition dazes through her features.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cassandra asks.

Solas steps forward. “Leader of the mage rebellion. Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

The Grand Enchanter folds her arms together at her front. “I heard of the gathering with the Chantry sisters and templars, and I wanted to see the fabled Herald of Andraste with my own eyes,” she says. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps you should look amongst the mages.”

“That would’ve been my first choice” – I raise a brow – “ _if_  you had been willing to speak with us.”

“We’re willing now,” the Grand Enchanter retorts. “That’s the important thing. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.”

Hmm.

“I hope to see you there.” She bows. “Au revoir, my Lady Herald.”

But my eyes don’t focus on her, instead on Solas. I don’t know why, but his eyes have iced over and his lips curl downward. Curious, but I don’t say a word.

* * *

 

Arriving at the Ghislain Estate, I find out rather quickly that arriving in armor wasn’t the… best decision. But I’m not a Lady of the Orlesian court. I do not wear the fine garments that many do, or the fancy masks encrusted with gemstones.

“Lady Adaar on behalf of the Inquisition,” speaks a scripter as I enter. But I’m alone tonight. I left Cassandra and the boys back at the hotel – with Cassandra in charge, of course - and I continue into the salon with an air of confidence.

Of course, there are many eyes on me and, like vultures on a carcass, two masked nobles approach and posture like I’d imagine those odd colorful turkeys might.

“What a pleasure to meet you, my lady. Seeing the same faces at every event becomes so tiresome,” says the man. “So you must be a guest of Madame De Fer. Or are you here for Duke Bastien?”

“Are you here on business?” the woman asks. “I have heard the most curious tales of you. I cannot imagine half of them are true.”

With Josephine and Leliana, who whispered words of encouragement and playing the Game in my ear, I may be more at ease here than I’d like. I’m built more for fighting, not politics and diplomacy, but I guess being the Herald of Andraste has its pros and cons. “What kinds of tales, if I may ask?” I speak.

“Some say that when the Veil opened, Andraste herself delivered you from the Fade,” the woman says.

“Oh, well, some of those storytellers may have gotten carried away.”

“But only for the best effect. The Inquisition is a ripe subject for wild tales.”

“The  _Inquisition_? Buh!” A remark is spat, and a masked noble descends the stairs. A sword sheathed at his back, his movements betray jealousy and pettiness instead of the anger he suggests. “What a load of pig shit! Washed up sisters and crazed Seekers? No one can take them seriously.”

The noble moves to circle me, voice bitter and disdainful. “Everyone knows it’s just an excuse for a bunch of political outcasts to grab power.”

“We are restoring the peace of our nations,” I explain flatly. “Just as we have already started doing between the mages and templars.”

“Of course you are,” he scoffs. He approaches me and sneers in distaste, dull and average eyes beyond his mask. “We know what your ‘Inquisition’ truly is. If you were a woman of honor, you’d step outside and answer the charges.” He reaches back to draw his sword; however as soon as his fingers graze the handle, a chill cuts the air. My mark tingles, but it isn’t the magic in my hand causing this; ice grows up from the noble’s legs and, within seconds, he’s coated in a freezing trap.

“My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house… to my guests.” A woman stands at the mass of steps, dressed in gems and beads of Orlesian finery; moth-like structures curling around her neck and reflecting the light. She descends the steps, ice sparkling on her fingertips as she nears. “You know such rudeness is… intolerable,” she finishes, her voice hardly neutral.

“Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” The noble – or marquis, as this woman had corrected – shakes, even in his icy prison.

So this woman must be Madame de Fer, then?

“You should. Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?” She gracefully halts in front of him, until she suddenly turns to me. “My Lady, you’re the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with his foolish, foolish man?”

While I wouldn’t mind seeing him go up in flames, I feel that would be… in bad taste. “I think the Marquis has seen the error of his ways,” I say instead.

Madame Vivienne grabs the marquis by the chin. “By the grace of Andraste, you have your life, my dear. Do be more careful with it.” With a snap of her fingers, the ice dissipates and he stumbles backwards, slinking off like a dog running away with its tail between its legs.

Madame De Fer turns to me again and smiles, wiping away the chill of icy magic from her fingers. “I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering. I’ve so wanted to meet you. Come now, darling, let’s speak somewhere a little more private.”

So, in good taste – as Josephine had suggested – I nod and follow.

The view from Duke Bastien de Ghistlain’s estate – or is it chateau? I’m never sure what the correct terminology for a mansion like this is – is a splendid one. The moons are bright overhead and cast a garden of well-tended flowers in flowing blue light and silver wisps.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Madame Vivienne starts as we ease ourselves near a windowsill. “I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

I bow lightly. “Charmed, Lady Vivienne.” The light of the candles catches off the metal fragments bound to my horns and allows it to shimmer like embers in a rising fire.

“Ah, but I didn’t invite you the chateau for pleasantries,” Vivienne says.

Oh?

“With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people,” Vivienne begins. “As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.” But what of the rebel mages and the help they could give? Would Lady Vivienne approve of such a venture, or would she merely criticize it as I’ve seen most Orlesians do?

“The Inquisition would be foolish not to seek your aid, Lady Vivienne.”

“Great things are beginning, my dear. I can promise you that.” Vivienne smiles. Her eyes graze over my armor. “And hopefully you’ll let me persuade you to see to my tailor and seamstress. I must say, you stand out in an event like this.”

“Is it the horns?” I joke.

Vivienne gives a light-hearted chuckle. “Oh, I like you, my dear.”

I return with a laugh of my own. “Well, if I may be honest, Madame Vivienne, Tal-Vashoth like me usually sleep on the sides of roads and wear our armor. You caught me off-guard with your invitation. I surely did not have anything to wear or know what to even bring. Orlesian parties are a new fancy for me, but quite enjoyable.”

There’s a spark in Vivienne’s eyes. Approval, I think? “Well, my dear, I will be more than happy to bring you to many events like these if you find yourself free from your duties,” she muses. “My tailor and seamstress will be most up for the challenge of finding you such wonderful garments to show your stature as Herald of Andraste. You’ll be a wonderfully bold statement, and one that the courts of Orlais will never cease to speak about.” Both in good and bad ways, I suspect.

“That sounds interesting indeed.”

“Now, dear, have I heard correctly you were not the only survivor of the Breach?” she asks. “There was that young elven girl I’ve heard about. The one who was an abomination. Where is she, if I may ask?”

“Gone,” I speak plainly.

“Ah, you killed her, that’s good.” Vivienne nods, but I do not correct her. “It is best not to have abominations running freely, especially in such a precious time such as this.”

Rhaena may still be out there, and if the wrong people were to get their hands on her, then they could use her to learn of the Breach or get close to the Inquisition.

I can’t have that.

* * *

 

Returning to our hotel of golden lights and too-elegant table settings pulls a disgusted moan from my lips. How I long for simplicity. I’ve barely been in this city a day, and already feel the need to vomit out silver and gold and beryl. Vivienne’s gathering and veiled quips were enough for me, but that didn’t stop many Orlesian patrons from attempting to corner me in the hotel’s main gathering hall, or the corridors.

Until Solas comes to my rescue, quite literally in fact. “Herald,” he speaks, quickly hushing several excitedly whispering nobles. They glance at him as he catches my eyes. His lips curl as I’m sure he notices my displeasure. “You have important letters awaiting you.”

A few nobles scoff. One even has the audacity to wave their hand toward Solas in dismissal. “Be gone, serving man. Your betters are speaking,” they retort.

“Excuse me, friends,” I instead say and twist on my heel toward Solas. “These letters must be important if my  _arcane advisor_  has come to tell me himself.”

The nobles blink behind their masks, and some even move their lips as they word out ‘arcane advisor’ as if it’s impossible for an  _elf_  to even be raised with a title like that. But fuck it, I’m a Qunari,  _and_  their Herald of Andraste. Humans are petty, prideful creatures. We turn away before the patrons can even speak a word, disappearing down another curling corridor.

“Thank you for saving me,” I say with a smile.

Solas’s lips twist upward. “They looked ready to eat you whole. Our Herald of Andraste in the bellies of hungry Orlesian lions would not be a good step for the Inquisition.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I guess not.”

Thankfully, the more we walk, the less people there are to bother us.

“Are there really letters, or were you using an excuse to save me?” I ask.

“The latter.” Ah, good. “But, there is something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about, in private.”

I pause, blinking. Did he find Rhaena? Did anything happen?

“Yes? Did you find any sign of our elven girl?”

“Well, I did not see her or talk to her, but I  _felt_  something during our last day in the Hinterlands” he begins. “I didn’t think anything of it until Grand Enchanter Fiona offered an alliance and mentioned Redcliffe again.”

“And?”

“It may have been nothing. Likely just a passing spirit reliving the memories of the attacks in Redcliffe during the Blight, but it was odd. Like a light. Something or someone calling for help,” he says. “And it was coming from the village.”

“Could it be from Rhaena?”

“That I am unsure. All I know is that the cry for help sounded desperate – a warning, but it was fleeting.”

Could it have been Rhaena? Could she be leading us there, trying to warn us? Trying to prepare us for a trap? But if this light was her, what does she know that we don’t?

“I suggest we travel back to Redcliffe, but remain on guard,” Solas suggests. “We don’t know if the offer of alliance with the mages may be genuine. And Master Lyrius spoke of possible Tevinter travelers. We must be prepared.”

“So we shall, my friend.”


	14. Rhaena

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, my cancer treatment began this week, so updates may be a tad slow continuing on. Thanks for understanding!

Attempting to avoid the Venatori, Magister Alexius, and his son Felix is more difficult than I thought it’d be. But it seems the magister has taken to the Arl’s castle, kicking out the Arl himself and anyone who wouldn’t serve him, or who was not a mage. That became clear enough when even many of the Redcliffe soldiers were sent away from the borders of the village.

I repay Eldhru’s kindness by helping him with errands across the village, picking up feed for the chickens and fetching the eggs they lay, plucking off the ripe fruits and vegetables in his back garden and reading baskets for his little produce cart out by the dock’s small market. Hiding in the shadows of a market stall, and thanks to the points of my ears, I’m as invisible as the tranquil who wander the village – and there are  _many_  tranquil.

I recognize a few from their Sunburst brands pierced red and scarred above their eyes, and they travel across the paths like sleepwalkers, neither awake nor asleep – stuck. Many mages shy away from them in fear and disgust, and do not notice when some go missing.

But I have.

About a week passes and, thankfully, Magister Alexius has yet to call on me. I’m hoping that he’s simply forgotten about the  _silly, wet rabbit_  who fell into the harbor, as I’ve heard many other of his Venatori whisper in passing as they chuckled to themselves.

“How much for these?” someone drawls and I freeze at sight of the Sunburst brand scarred over a patron’s head. His eyes are neutral, lips a thin line and, in his hands, a basket with several items from my stall.

“I-um.” Staggering, I glance to his items; two eggs, two tomatoes, and a zucchini. “Thirteen bronze bits.”

The tranquil is quick to reach into a pouch of coins, extending his arm outward without a single flicker of emotion crossing their face.

I let him drop the bits into my palm before he turns, without another word, and steps away.

“W-wait-” I say without a thought.

The tranquil pauses and turns, but there’s still no flicker in his eyes, nothing – not even a light. And it’s unsettling, seeing this man reduced to nothing but some walking corpse.

 _No_.

No. He is not a walking corpse. These invisible people are still  _people_. What happened to them may cause many to rear away in fear and disgust, but I… I understand.

“Can you, uh, can you come back here a moment?” I ask.

“Of course,” the tranquil deadpans, stepping to the front of my stall once more.

My fingers clasp together and I fight to hold my trembling hands still as I stare at this man. “What is your name?” I ask.

The tranquil answers, “Clemence.”

Wasn’t that the name of the tranquil here, in  _The Gull and Lantern_? I don’t know; when all of this was but a game, I cared less about the names of invisible tranquil and more about recruiting them if they proved useful…

Just thinking that makes bile burn in my throat.

“You are tranquil, correct?” I ask.

“Yes,” he confirms what I already know.

“What do you do here in Redcliffe, Clemence?”

“I was the alchemy assistant to Grand Enchanter Fiona, but Magister Alexius has no need for a tranquil.”

“ _Why_?”

He barely blinks, barely twitches – he doesn’t even sigh in agitation over my questioning.  “I remind Magister Alexius of what mages can become,” he explains. “I remain for now, but many other tranquil have been escorted from Redcliffe by the magister’s men.”

A tremor of fear pulses through my limbs, but Clemence barely makes mention of noticing. I remember what happens to tranquil; I’ve seen in the game what many become when taken possession of by Venatori. They are killed,  _slaughtered_ , and their skulls used for occulara.

Others may not see the tranquil, or even think them people but… I clench my fists tight, crossed in front of me. “You said you’re an alchemist?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“After the magister banished you from the castle, have you found use of your specialty?”

“There is not much use for a tranquil alchemist at this time. The mages would rather task their own with work instead of one like me.”

“Would you like a place where your work would prove invaluable?” I ask. When Clemence does not respond, I continue and lower my voice to a whisper. “The Inquisition has camps all around the Hinterlands, I think. Go to them; explain to their scouts you’d like to put your skills to use. Take any other tranquil with you. The Inquisition could use any help you’d be able to offer. I fear it’s not going to be safe for tranquil here much longer.”

“Are you certain?” Clemence asks, detached.

I nod. “Many of the mages do not see it, because they chose not to. Tranquil have been disappearing, or being banished from Redcliffe by the magister’s men. But I fear they have not been simply banished, I believe they are being killed.”

“You are not scared of us,” he says impassively. “But you’re scared for us.”

“Yes. Others may see what they could become in you, but I see that you – and other tranquil – are still people. You’re still living lives. Why choose to remain here when others are disgusted of you?”

“We do not have the desire to care.”

A breath hitches in my throat. “Then I  _plead_  to you, Clemence.”

I move from the shadows of my stall to stand next to this tranquil, close enough to notice there’s no glimmer of life in his grayed eyes. It’s unsettling still.

“Take the other tranquil and leave for the Inquisition. If nothing else matters, I hope that your lives may. Go to the Inquisition and tell them this; that you believe that many tranquil are being taken and killed, but you feel your lives are still worth something to help.” I  _loathe_  myself for speaking like this, treating him like he’s an inanimate bit of furniture that can speak, but if I can get through to him – make him understand-

“I will do as you say,” Clemence says, and I feel the tension bleed away from me with a sigh. “You are indeed correct. I do not wish to end my life if I still prove worth. I will travel to the Inquisition and offer my services.”

I cannot help the smile that blooms on my face. “Good.”

“Thank you for your words.” With a nod, Clemence turns and disappears, and a sense of ease floods over me once more… but my breaths come in shocked gasps before I slink back into the shadows of the stall. It takes some time for me to still myself, but several more patrons come and go, purchasing some of the goods from Eldhru’s gardens and pens.

By the end of the day, there’s about sixty bronze bits of profits. Good, this is good. It’ll definitely help, I’m sure Eldhru will be pleased.

Tying the bronze bits in a pouch inside my robes, I take the empty baskets in hand. The sun’s setting across the mountains on the horizon, and the salty chill of the harbor settles over the furs on my shoulders, but I gracefully bound up the steps, past the stone gryphon statue meant to honor the Hero of Ferelden, and toward Eldhru’s home-

Until the sleek, golden robes of a Venatori mage catches at the corner of my eyes. I dive into the shadow of the tavern, blinking and catching the outline of the mage under the stone arches that lead to Redcliffe’s Chantry.

But something’s unusual; the mage is alone, unmasked, and his sunken cheeks are  _familiar_.

Felix, its  _Felix_.

Though alone, without either his father or Venatori guards at his side, he hurries up the path, weaving in and out shadows like he doesn’t wish to be caught. Curious…

… I shouldn’t follow him.

I should only return to Eldhru’s home with the empty baskets and profit of the day. But instead, I tuck the baskets away, hidden behind some curling branches, and hold onto the bits securely strapped inside my robes, looping in and out of the night’s coming dusk like Felix had done. Very little people, tending to their own businesses, care to see an elf slinking to the Chantry.

The doors sit ajar, and I squeeze into the temple, hidden in the darkness that clings to the walls. The only light of the Chantry comes from the flames of melting wax candles and the moon’s light cast into rainbows through the stained glass windows over its platform and altar. And I’m not the only one sticking to the shadows.

Whispers in the darkness, the deep voices of two men, hurriedly speak in hushed tones. There’s a sense of urgency, of fear and anger. Until all there is, stands silence. Breathing is still, with only the beat of my heart heavy in the air.

Then the murmur of a word and a sudden shock of electricity  _cracks_  against the pillar at my back. With a curse, I spiral back into a pile of shattered stone and choking dust, right as the sharpened, honed edge of a staff is leveled an inch or two from my face.

As dust clears away, the shadowed faces of two men start down at me. It’s hard to see in the sharp candlelight, but one I recognize from the golden threads of his attire – Felix. And the other, whose staff is raised, has glimmering hair styled back against his head, and facial hair that curls neatly just above his lips. His sneer curves.

“Stop, Dorian, she isn’t Venatori,” Felix says and lowers a hand upon the other’s shoulder.

 _Dorian_?!

My eyes flash wide as I stare to the other Tevinter, but he’s not so hesitant to lower his staff away. The dim light doesn’t allow me to study his features; instead, I’m more focused on the bead of blood that drips down my neck and the pulsing ache as my heart speeds.

“Who  _are_  you?” he questions.

“I-I’m Rhaena,” I force out as I cough against the dust that clogs the air.

“One of the rebel mages.” His eyes narrow.

But Felix’s lips twitch. “You’re the girl that fell in the harbor,” he says.

“Well” – I grimace lightly – “the truth is, I fell off a cliff and ended up in your harbor. So no, I’m not part of the rebel mages. I’m… actually a member of the Inquisition.” Not quite true, but if I can persuade these two to lower their weapons and talk maybe my white lie will do the trick.

“You’re not the Herald of Andraste.”

“I am not,” I confirm for him, “but I did survive the Breach.”

Dorian’s lips curl up. “You’re the abomination that fell from the Fade, then?”

Abomination,  _really_?

I huff. “I really wish people would quash that rumor. They had their templars check me and that wasn’t fun, and do you think if there was a demon in me it wouldn’t have attacked you already?”

Maybe not the best thing to say, but both men hesitate.

 “I’d appreciate it if you’d lower your weapon so we can talk peacefully.” And then I chuckle. “There’s a jagged stone digging into my back that’s not quite comfortable.”

Dorian pulls his staff away and measures it at his side while Felix outstretches a hand.

“So, Rhaena, did you come to pray?” Dorian questions and I catch his stare as he looks me up and down. His lips twitch, and I know it’s likely because I interrupted his private meeting, and if I followed then others could’ve too.

“Ah, no, sorry. I, um” – I grimace and hesitantly step back – “would you believe me if I said I’d knew you’d both be here?”

“If we did, it’s not very reassuring,” Felix reasons. “Why did you follow us, Rhaena? What purpose of the Inquisition do you serve?”

“My purpose is… complicated.”

“Oh, we understand complicated.” Dorian leans back against one of the pillars and smirks. “Go on then.”

“I don’t serve an actual purpose for the Inquisition,” I confess. “If I told them of what I could do, I feel they may not understand. The opinions of Ferelden and Orlais, their strict Chantry policing, and templars would see me dead or… worse, tranquil. I figured talking with some mages from Tevinter would be helpful because, maybe then, I wouldn’t receive the same criticism I would here.”

Dorian chuckles and puffs up, like a peacock. “You southerners are always so stingy when it comes to mages. It’s a shame.”

“Go on, Rhaena,” Felix offers.

“I, uh, I knew you both would be here,” I start. “When the… explosion at the Temple happened, I… saw things. I think the magic, or whatever, that was used in the explosion reacted in me. I saw things that couldn’t be real, people that should only be figments. In what was maybe a few seconds, it felt like months went by. I saw the world change, twist, and become tainted and corrupted. I saw  _Venatori_  rise up, and red lyrium grow from mangled bodies, and the Veil become torn asunder. I thought it all a dream, but then I fell from the rift and I  _remembered_. A few people who I saw in this dream stood in front of me, as real as you or me.”

“Kaffas,” Dorian curses. “What else?”

“Things were different from what I saw, but in the dream the Inquisition was created, led by a Qunari rogue and a Seeker. And then I woke up to it. In the dream, I saw the war of mages and templars, and we were thrown into it. I dreamt of Redcliffe and…” My eyes sweep back and forth between Dorian and Felix, before I swallow roughly. “I saw you, Dorian. And Felix, you as well. I know you’re sick. I know what your father’s doing with the Venatori cult, and with that  _time_  amulet wrapped around his neck.”

“This is fascinating.”

To put this much faith and trust on the shoulders of two men I barely know is a gamble, I know, but… there aren’t many people who know me, or trust me. If I spilled this information to the wrong people then it will end badly and I’ll see death or the Chantry’s Sunburst brand.

Felix stills. “You do?”

“Yes. In the dream, I saw him use it, several times. First, to claim the allegiance of the rebel mages out from under the Inquisition, and then to wipe the Herald of Andraste from existence. I saw what happened to the world. Trust me; it’s not something I want to experience.” I pause. “Is what I’m saying about your father true?”

Felix and Dorian exchange a glance, before Dorian peels himself from the pillar.

“I never did get to introduce myself.” He gives a graceful bow. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous.”

I cheekily smile. “Would it be weird if I said I already knew you were?”

He laughs, something bright and hearty, and oddly enough it helps to soothe the tension coiled deep in my belly. “Do you?”

“I know that your father has a seat in the Magisterium, and you are an altus,” I say.

Dorian’s brows perk. “Well, most southerners don’t know the difference.”

“I’m not like most southerners.”

“No, you are clearly not. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable, and it’s unraveling the world. I… helped develop it.”

“It could’ve also had a hand in giving you this precognition ability,” Felix suggests, but I know better. Highly improbable, but I do not correct him. “Dorian was Alexius’s apprentice.”

“Yes. When I was, the magic was pure theory. Alexius could never get it to work.”

“Everything my father is doing is for the Venatori, Tevinter supremacists. Whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to the Herald. And likely wipe them out of existence, as you said. The Venatori are utterly obsessed with the Herald, and likely you too – if they actually  _knew_ who you were when you dropped in the harbor – likely because you’ve both survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“They might see you as a threat,” Dorian suggests with a hum. “Maybe you already know.”

Yes, the Venatori worship a would-be-god who wants to tear down the Veil with stolen magic from the Elven God of Misfortune, enter the Black City, claim the throne, and rule a burning world in his name. Instead, “Trust me, you don’t wish to know,” is all I say.

“I love my father, and I love my country,” Felix sighs and his shoulders droop. “But this? Cults? Time magic? What he’s doing now is madness. For his own sake, he needs to be stopped.”

“It would also be nice if he didn’t rip a hole in time. There’s already a hole in the sky. You’re expecting what he’s going to do, and that is the first step in turning it to our advantage.”

“Will you remain here?” I ask him.

“Oh, no, I cannot.”

“Dorian” – I step forward – “if you are here too it might help to throw him off-guard.”

The altus’s dark eyes shimmer. “And sleep in that poor excuse for a tavern? I think not.”

“Give us a week,” I offer. “If the Herald isn’t here within a week, I promise we’ll rethink this plan over.”

* * *

 

The only time I’m able to escape is in my dreams, but tonight the Dread Wolf waits. I can feel the itching claw of his magic before I fall to the Fade. A buzzing breeze nips at my cheek and, when I open my eyes, I’m met by the vast sloping hills of green farm fields. In its distance, snow-capped mountains and the visages of winged lions with the faces of eagles fly unburdened through the skies – griffins.

Vast crystal spires hover high in the sky, held up by will alone. Dragons, beautiful beings of golds, reds, blues, and purples crest and roar. Packs of wolves run through the farmlands, but none of the livestock or gathered halla flee. Instead, it’s serene.

A vision of a time long lost.

Arlathan?

Elvhenan?

Magic snaps along my arms, and I feel his presence against my back.

“Come to ask that favor already?” I ask at a familiar pluck, a gentle whisper of green and blue wisps across my skin.

“What favor?” But instead of the Dread Wolf’s smooth, yet guttural, voice there rings a cadence with a gentle inquisitive nudge. A little flicker of _something_ at the back of my head, itching against my scalp, and I whip to stare behind me.

Instead of standing as the Dread Wolf, he stands as _Solas_ – clad in his leather and woolen tunics. His eyes are calm and home to a glimmer of blue and hues of green in this Fade scene, and upon his face, a smile.

His eyebrows raise, and there’s a pinkness to his cheeks that help the slight speckling of freckles across his face pop.

“Solas.” His name is like a breath of fresh air and I’m inches from him within seconds, arms tight around him in an embrace. Did I think I’d miss him like I have? Actually, I don’t think I realized myself how much I’ve grown to miss the Inquisition.

Except, he grows rigid like he’s been scalded, and I pull away, magic rearing in response.

“I – I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I should’ve asked before…”

“No,” Solas clears his throat, lips twitching. But the pinkness of his cheeks darkened across his face through the tip of his ears. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m just happy to see you still living.”

“And I, you. I thought maybe the bandits would’ve killed you.”

“I confess, we had trouble but we also had help.”

“Who?”

“A story for another time. What matters right now is, are _you_ okay? Where are you, we will come and bring you back to Haven.”

With a steadying breath, I let my lips pull high into a smile. “I’m in Redcliffe, but I’m fine.”

Solas mouths the words, his brows furrowing. “With the rebel mages?” he asks.

“Yes, but also someone else. Someone more dangerous. A Tevinter magister.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“No, as far as I’m aware. He… he just thinks me a tiny mage _rabbit_ who fell in the harbor and needed saving.”

“No, you are _bright_. Brighter than most.”

I simper. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Oh?” Solas tilts to his head to the side, a curious glint amidst the faint green specks in his eyes. “Who else has?”

“I…” _Careful_. Do not let on that I know; do not tell of our other ‘visitor’, even if he’s all the same. If he has to ask, I’m sure it’s more than a question – a test; see if I blather off that I met the infamous _Dread Wolf_ in my dreams. _No_. “It doesn’t matter. How did _you_ find me?”

“I followed your light,” he says. “It’s… very bright, even within the Fade.”

“If it’s so bright, why only find me now?”

“Few reasons,” he hums. “A bright light, a temptation. Could’ve been a demon playing a trick. But, the light wasn’t as bright as it is now. The closer we are, the brighter you become.” He draws closer until the heat from him is as visceral as the magic lapping around my arms and the scent of elfroot on the fabrics of his tunic.

“What am I like? A flame?”

“No. More akin to… a sun. But not blinding, no. Far from it. When I look at you it’s… different. With a sun, look at it too long and one goes blind. And our sun, as beautiful as it is, radiates yellow and amber. _You_ do not.”

His breath tickles the edges of my ears, and a shudder rocks through my shoulders as Solas continues, “I’d imagine if more people looked at you like the spirits of the Fade do, they’ll see you’re an aurora, a rainbow. Something new, something unseen. Temptation and… peace.”

 _Oh_.

I turn my head up toward the sky filled with looping dragons and the griffins that sway to and fro along the crystal spires. The islands above us glitter like marvels, made beautiful by the memories hidden through the Fade.

The scents of it all are heavy, clouding my mind.

Stirred up dirt, trampled grasses…

The scent of leather-bound books from Solas’s thick tunic.

Then there’s something else; a bite of a thought, a stirring of rush, a tremor in my heart that races with familiarity. When I reveled in my magic, the fluttering of my heart when spirits of light and aurora danced from my skin and skated across a frozen lake with warm lanterns of stars.

It brings a peace of mind.

Until the world tenses and snaps, and icy water traps me within. I claw from the Fade and my eyes widen to stare up at glittering masks staring me down. Dark eyes shine past them and, whoever these people are, they  _laugh_. Armored hands dig into my shoulders and I scream out, suddenly muffled by a gag shoved roughly between my lips.

“Magister Alexius will see you now,  _rabbit_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear any comments; they help to keep the inspiration going for future chapters. Thanks so much!


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